


"Forever" in Our Grasp

by azpianist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pirates, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azpianist/pseuds/azpianist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing ever happens to ex-British Naval Captain John Watson--that is, until he receives a letter calling him to the lead of the HMS Hudson. With the priviledge of the ship comes the danger of a malevolent pirate crew led by the feared captain Sherlock Holmes, however, and John soon finds himself swept up in the excited search for a map and its coveted treasure: the Fountain of Youth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first long story in a while! It will update every Thursday until its finish.  
> Also, this is NOT a cross-over of Pirates of the Caribbean, not even close. It comes from Mycroft's comment that Sherlock had wanted to be a pirate.  
> Enjoy!

Amongst the vast blue of the ocean, as far as the eye can see, there floats gently a single ship. Wind whips about her prow, flicking the bound sails back and forth as easily as one would move their eyes. The hot sun beats down upon the polished deck, casting glimmers of light onto the rail and bulwark. A British flag waves excitedly in the breeze, freshly-sewn and anxious to be broken in. The ship is fairly new, and proven by her own merit to be the fastest of her fleet—if not the fastest of the British Navy.

But she won’t be fast enough.

Unseen to the happily buoying naval ship is another, darker ship. Sails yellowed with wear are tied to their respective yards with rope likely older than the ship herself. The deck planking is weather- and shoe-beaten, and reflects none of the sun’s rays joyously over the rail, or the bulwark, or even the waterway. The entire ship is dull black-brown, and floats quietly along the sparkling water, completely unnoticed. Her crew is nowhere to be seen, save for a few men.

At the stern of the ship, at the highest landed point possible, stands a long, sinewy man with a spyglass to his eye. His black coat swirls about his knees as the wind rifles past him, and he lowers the glass from his eye. He blinks them open to reveal startlingly green irises framing soulless pupils.

“Jefferson,” he calls, and a man who had been sitting amongst barrels on the quarterdeck scrambles to his feet and up the stairs to the taller man. The man pointed at the ship in the distance with his telescope. “Do you see that ship?”

Jefferson nods, unable to speak even though he’s not being looked at.

“We’re going to attack it.” The man lowers his telescope-holding arm and stares at the tiny ship resolutely.

“Um, Captain, sir,” Jefferson stutters, “why?”

He smirks. “Because they have something that I want.”

Mere minutes later, the entire crew is rushing about on the deck of the ship, and the long-coated man is barking orders.

“Draw the mainsail! _Yes_ and the foresail! Draw _all_ the sails, you blubbering buffoons, and move smartly about it!” He spins around, black coat flaring out and boots squeaking against the slick wood of the deck.The whole ship is a flurry of motion, every crew member moving quickly and effectively to obey the orders of their captain.

“We are going to catch that ship,” the captain calls, grinning sadistically in the direction the ship in the distance, “because that ship is under the command of Captain Donovan, and won’t he be pleased to see us?”

By the time Donovan’s ship catches sight of _the Skull_ , it’s already too late. She’s closing in on them, sails fully drawn and billowing, and within eight kilometers—far too close for escape, unless the crew of the HMS _Anne_ can move fast and sail faster.

Donovan, a wide, proud man, calmly tells his right-hand man to relay to everyone that an unidentified ship is approaching and that they must outrun her if they are to survive with their cargo intact.

He relays.

Suddenly, the stark-white sails of the HMS _Anne_ are open and full of wind, propelling them forward.

The dark-haired captain of _the Skull_ frowns. “Damn,” he mutters, then raises his voice once more to shout: “they’ve spotted us! Prepare for a shaky boarding!”

The men on the deck all nod and hum back into motion, some going below deck to grab supplies and some rushing about to maximize speed. The captain stands completely still in spite of the moving ship, critically watching over his limited crew. His acidic gaze rakes across the working backs of his men, always studying, never stopping. By now his study is unnecessary, but it’s always useful to know who is plotting against whom—especially if they’re plotting against him. For now they seem stable and loyal, and he should hope so considering the important battle rapidly approaching.

As the gap between HMS _Anne_ and _the Skull_ closes, the captain of _the Skull_ tells his men what they are looking for. “It’s a map,” he yells, “no pathways, no big red Xs, just a map with words, namely riddles. I should be able to get it from Donovan, but should I not it’s up to you lot.”

Murmurs of consent go through the crew, every one looking prepared and confident. A few of them stand at attention at the sails’ ropes, prepared to loosen or tighten them at a moment’s notice. Others are hidden away below deck, preparing the cannons and waiting for their captain’s command to fire.

The _Anne_ comes into range, and with a shout of “Fire!” _the Skull_ ’s cannons shoot their projectiles into the other ship. It is a flurry of sounds and damages between the two ships, and eventually the two come close enough for the prepared men on from _the Skull_ to swing over to the naval ship. From there it is a cacophony of swords and guns and shouts.

Among the boarding men is the captain of _the Skull_ , who cuts his way expertly through Donovan’s men with a kind of feline grace. His movements are calculated and precise, doing only what is necessary to kill his adversary, all without bloodying his own clothes. He flips around one of the men who lunge at him, and quickly severs the man’s jugular elegantly with his sabre. Jade eyes scan the riots for Donovan, who seems to have hidden. He scoffs. Coward.

Captain Donovan rifles through his desk drawers in a panic, searching for what he knows _the Skull_ is here for. Finding a small scroll in the depths of his desk, he unrolls it and smiles, before re-rolling it. He pulls open his jacket to tuck the scroll safely away, but finds himself with the cold steel of a sword against his neck.

“Don’t move,” a deep voice growls. A thin, pale hand plucks the desired item from Captain Donovan’s grasp. “Thank you,” _the Skull_ ’s captain purrs, and then decapitates Donovan.

Donovan’s murdererwaltzes out of the _Anne_ ’s Captain’s quarters, holding a small scroll—what they had come for. He gives a sideways glance and raises an eyebrow at his crew, who have rounded up what is left of the _Anne_ ’s men. He rakes his eyes over the captured men impassively, then glances over his shoulder before making a quick judgment.

“These ones can live.” He tucks the map away into his coat pocket. “Well, for the time being at least.” He returns his cold gaze to the group. “You are to leave these men here,” he states, “and we are going to destroy the _Anne_ and leave them to die or be saved by that ship.” Without looking, the captain points at the horizon, where a mast has just poked above the water. “They are approximately eight kilometers away shall find you soon enough.”

The remaining crew of the HMS _Anne_ watches helplessly as _the Skull_ ’s cannons fire the last shots, cracking the hull of the ship irreparably and letting it sink slowly into the depths of the Atlantic.

When the HMS _Georgiana_ reaches the wreckage, _the Skull_ is already long out of sight. Captain Anderson’s crew pulls the living men out of the water, carefully questioning them.

“He’s dead,” one of the men blubbers, “Captain’s dead.”

“Who killed him?” Captain Anderson asks. The man keeps rocking, completely in shock.

“Pirates,” another blurts out.

Anderson directs his attention to the coherent one. “Yes, I gathered as much.” He sighs impatiently, tapping his foot. “But which ones?”

The man looks pleadingly up at the captain, whose gaze is unrelenting. “It was _the Skull_ ,” he mumbles. “It was Sherlock Holmes.”


	2. A Letter of Recommendation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the meat of the story! As I have said before, updates will occur once a week, every week, and always on Thursday. Enjoy!

Idiocy is often what brings a country to its knees—be it the idiocy of the small groups of power or the idiocy of the masses. In some cases, it could even be the idiocy of an individual.

Idiocy is by far the safest word for trust; such is the musing of Captain John Watson, interrupted before it could evolve by a harsh knock on the door. The captain’s head jerks up from its position, downturned at the maps scattered across his imperial desk, neck cracking as it does so. He winces and rubs at it—he must have been studying these charts for longer than he had originally thought—then calls for the knocker to enter.

The Watsons’ meek-looking servant boy pokes his head in, eyes glued to his feet. “Sir,” he stutters, his red-blond curls trembling with the rest of his pale frame. “Letter for you.” His freckled hand pokes through the gap and holds out a cream envelope.

John stands carefully from his chair, wary of his injured leg, and gently takes the letter from the boy’s shaky hand. “Thank you, William.” He smiles down at the servant kindly.

William’s blue eyes rise to meet the careful gaze of the captain and he returns the smile nervously. “You’re welcome, sir.” He ducks out of the room quickly, closing the door hard. John hears him scramble down the stairs, likely to avoid an unwelcome confrontation with John’s sister, Harriet.

The captain sighs at the thought. He has long since known Harriet’s drunken habits, but poor William was new to them. They had hired the boy from the orphanage as an act of compassion not two weeks ago, and he’s not completely used to the idea of tending to an inebriated Harry—then again, nobody is.

John turns his attention from his thoughts and to the letter in his hands. The yellow-white envelope is crisp and clean and stiff, and without looking at the address he knows who it’s from. The red wax seal on the flap is ornate and cracks loudly as John breaks its hold on the paper and slides out the letter. As he had thought, it is from Commodore Gregory Lestrade with deference from the higher ranking members of the government and Naval hierarchy, with whom John is not well acquainted.

It is the first time since his injury that he has been called to any duty, and John is itching to return to the sea, although he cannot expect that much so soon. However, as he skims the letter, he begins to grin.

“Harry!” John shouts, pulling on his coat and grabbing his oak cane from the side of the desk. “I have to meet the commodore. I’ll be back soon enough!”

John limps out of his office and down the stairs, ignoring the scrambling of William to prepare some sort of parting decorum for his rushed master. The boy reaches the front door just before the Captain does and pulls it open for him, his passing attempt at performing his assigned duties. Watson gives a curt but grateful “thank you” to the servant before hobbling out onto the sidewalk in front of his home.

The grander home of the commodore is more ornate, more intimidating, and more decorated than the Watsons’, and the Captain feels mildly out of place in the large plush chair by Lestrade’s crackling fireplace. John checks his pocket watch. He had been seen into the parlor nearly fifteen minutes ago, assured by the young maid that the commodore would be down shortly to receive him.

“Captain Watson,” comes a deep voice from the entry way. John turns in his chair to see the familiar form of Gregory Lestrade standing in the light of a window, smiling tensely.

“Commodore Lestrade.” Watson pushes himself up from his chair to greet his host fully. They shake hands with each other before John returns to his seat and Gregory takes the armchair opposite him.

“Do you want a drink?” John’s host asks, “I’m sure the trip was hard, considering…” Lestrade vaguely gestures to John’s leg.

“Oh, no,” John returns, “I’m fine. It’s good that our homes are so close, though, or I shouldn’t have made a successful trip here.”

The two sit in silence for a time, staring intently at the flickering of the fire. It clings to the log, then disconnects, then clings once more, performing an over-complicated dance of chemical reactions that result in an odd orange-yellow-red plasma that radiates heat.

“That fire,” the commodore says suddenly, “is incredibly important for our life.”

John blinks at the sudden prose. “Sorry?”

“Without fire, we’d have no heat,” Gregory explains, “and therefore no life.” The official leans forward in his chair and looks into John’s eyes earnestly. “Trust me, I’m going somewhere with this.”

John gives a nervous laugh. “Good. I was worried that you were just…” He waves his hand, trailing off.

His host leans back in his chair once more and returns his gaze to the fire, orange light flickering off his face and lighting up his sullen eyes. His face looks older than it really is in the lighting, and John can see stress in his expression.

“We’ve gotten ourselves into a bit of a situation,” Lestrade says, eyes not leaving the fire, “involving someone on whom we depend quite heavily.” He shuts his eyes and furrows his brow for a moment, rubbing circles into his temples.

“This matter is rather…” the commodore trails off for a moment, searching for the right word, “delicate. It involves certain persons whom the government ought not associate with, and certain items which ought not be lost but have been.” He sighs and puts his palms over his eyes. “You know why I chose to come to you with this, yes?”

John gives a facetious smile and raises his eyebrows. “Because I’m wounded and easy to remove if need be?”

Gregory’s head snaps up and he gives the captain an exasperated look. “Now is not the time for jokes, John.”

“Sorry.” John purses his lips. “This is a serious problem, then? To have to bring me back?”

“Yes,” Lestrade says, “a very serious problem.” He takes a deep breath.

“For a long time now,” he begins, “we’ve been having trouble with some of the other countries and the renegades. We couldn’t keep the violence under control, and-” the commodore struggles with his words for a moment, “-well, we finally got it under our control, with some of the government agents on our side for once. One in particular—you remember Mycroft, right?—recommended to us a young person of interest who might be able to help us with one of our conquests. This person doesn’t matter, but regardless to say they helped.

“We were able to get a map of sorts—not the normal kind of map, but a special one. It _looks_ like a normal map, but there’s all sorts of writing over it. Riddles, to be exact. It’s rumored to,” he pauses and once again stumbles about for the right phrase, “to lead to a… fictional treasure. Well, to the Fountain of Youth.” He sighs and pushes his hands against his forehead.

John chuckles. “The Fountain of Youth? The British government is looking for the Fountain of Youth?”

“No,” Lestrade drawls, “not looking for it. We just wanted to get the map and get it away from the other countries—there’s no way that the Fountain actually _exists_.” He raises his gaze to meet John’s. “But there has to be a reason for the map. There has to be _something_ there.

“The point of the matter is,” he continues, “the map was taken from us.

“A few days ago, the HMS _Anne_ , led by Captain Donovan, was attacked by a band of pirates--very dangerous pirates—and they killed Donovan and took the map. Poor Sandra is devastated by the loss of her husband.” Gregory runs a hand down his stressed cheek. “You probably know what pirates I’m talking about, though— _The Skull_.”

John nods. “Yeah, the ship with the genius captain without a first mate or something, right?” His eyebrows draw together. “I thought that was just a story.”

“No, it’s very real,” Lestrade sighs, “I’ve met the crew and their captain. He’s insufferable, which explains the first-mate thing.”

“Sorry,” John interjects, “you’ve met him?”

“I’d rather not go into it.”

Watson begins carefully after a pause. “So, you want me to go after an infamous band of pirates—one led by a genius who doesn’t need a first mate—to get a map?”

“When you put it that way,” Gregory says, “it sounds insane, doesn’t it?”

John blinks disbelievingly. “Yeah, it does.”

“Please, John,” Gregory begs, “we need you to do this. I need you to do this. You’ll be provided with a ship to rival _The Skull_ and a crew to match it. We even know where they are.”

John stands and looks down at the pleading commodore. “Thanks for the offer,” he says, “I’ll think about it.”

Lestrade stands as well with a grateful smile. “Thank you.” He shakes Watson’s hand firmly. “Please let me know as soon as you can.”

John gives a terse smile and nods in confirmation. “I will.”

When John limps through his front door, he already knows what he is going to tell Lestrade; no. He craves the sea again, there’s no doubt about that, but not enough to go gallivanting off in search of a mythical pirate and the map to the Fountain of Youth—not to mention Harry would go into a depression if he wasn’t home.

A crash sounds from upstairs, followed by feminine giggles and boyish chides.

“M-miss Harriet! Please be careful!” William calls, muffled through the floor between him and John. Harry’s giggles shift to cackles as she yells “oopsie!” and laughs some more.

John sighs. She’s picked the lock to his liquor cabinet. He pushes himself up the stairs, leaning heavily on his cane with every step.

He knocks on the door that the giggling is coming from. “Harry? William?” The giggling stops. Someone stomps towards the door and it is wrenched open from the inside to reveal a haggard and more-than-tipsy blonde, her hair pulled up in what used to be a dignified bun and her lilac dress stained with spilled alcohol.

“Hullo there,” Harry slurs, rolling forward from the hips up, “ _Captain_ Watson.” She wears an expression of utmost disgust with her younger brother, and makes no attempt to hide her disdain as she gestures about with a half-empty bottle. “You were gone for a looooong time!” She stumbles, and William lurches forward to keep her from falling on John.

“Harry,” John says, “what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

She collapses sideways onto a nearby armchair, hanging her stockinged feet over the arm and one arm over the back. “Drowning my sorrows.” The straw-blonde tips her head back and takes a swig from the quickly draining bottle. “What does it look like?”

“You’re going to drown more than your sorrows if you keep drinking like that,” John banters, giving her a disapproving look. “You know this isn’t healthy.” Harriet moves to take another gulp from the bottle, but John snatches it from her drunken grasp. She continues with the motion anyways, and it takes her a dazed moment to realize that she’s no longer holding the container. When she realizes it, however, she’s livid.

“How _dare_ you!” she screams, clumsily attempting to lift herself from the chair. She tries to move her arm correctly and fails, but settles for sitting lopsidedly in the plush chair with one arm slung over the back. “You know that stealing from a woman is punishable by prison!”

John gestures to the near-empty bottle in his left hand. “And stealing from a captain is punishable by hanging.”

Harry unhooks her arm from the top of the chair and lies back across it as she had been, crowing her arms and pouting. “I hate it when you’re here, y’know that? You always ruin my fun.”

John stiffens and his expression hardens. He turns his back on the inebriated woman and busies himself with fixing up the liquor cabinet. “I don’t ruin any fun; I protect you from yourself,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for her to hear.

“That’s the point!” Harriet admonishes, flinging out her arms carelessly. “Things were so much nicer when you were always gone on one boat or another, and then you had to go and get yourself shot! How stupid can you get?” She flings her legs over the chair’s arm and stands quickly, tipping slightly as she does so. She points an accusatory finger at John’s back. “You were always the better one. Not so great now, huh? Little Johnny with the useless leg and the limp and the.. The…” Her eyes roll. “The everything! You always had all the attention and now you’re nothing, just like me, and you _still_ tell me what to do!” Harry waves her hand disappointedly.

“Just leave me alone.” She hiccups drunkenly. “It was better when you were gone.” She stumbles toward the door, and William jumps from his place in the corner to her aid. The servant helps her out and pulls the door shut to the best of his ability, affording the insulted captain an empty room.

John keeps his back to the door, trembling slightly as he hunches over the cabinet. He stares brokenly down at his injured leg, before something inside him snaps and he flings Harry’s mostly-drained bottle at the wall. He pants, frustrated tears dripping down his face. He wipes them away rapidly with short, shaking fingers and stares at the spot the bottle shattered against. The liquid spread in a chrysanthemum-like pattern, painting the brown material of the wall with the sadly drooping figure. John gazes blankly at it, looking but not really seeing. He blinks back the water that rises insistently to his eyes and turns to the set of parchment and pens he keeps on the side table.

The captain snatches up the paper and pen and sits awkwardly in the chair that his sister had been hanging over just moments before. It takes him little time to scribble out a letter to Commodore Lestrade, and once it’s finished John hastily shoves it into a nearby envelope. He pushes himself up with his cane and limps to his study, where he sets a candle to light and pulls out his stamp.

Once the letter is sealed, the captain goes to his sister’s quarters. He pushes open the door to her room carefully, revealing Harriet collapsed and snoring on her pastel pink quilt. William sits on the floor nearby, leaning back on his palms with closed eyes, exhausted.

“William,” John calls quietly, and the boy’s eyes snap open and he jumps up, tired but ready to do his duty. He gives a furtive glance to the sleeping woman and tiptoes to the door.

“Do you know where Commodore Lestrade lives?” John asks.

The boy nods.

“Can you get there and back within the hour?”

He nods again.

The captain hands the servant the sealed envelope. “Get this to him as quickly as possible, please. I’ll take care of Harriet.”

“Yes, sir,” William whispers. He dashes down the stairs and out the front door.

John leans against the frame of Harry’s door, staring at his drunk, sleeping sister.

He shuts her door and walks away.

The next morning finds Captain John Watson in full Navy regalia standing on the docks, leaning all his weight on his cane. His leg twinges from nerves, but he forgets about it when Lestrade steps out of his carriage.

“Gregory,” John greets, nodding his head lightly. Lestrade smiles and returns the greeting.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” The commodore asks, then hastily adds: “Not that I don’t appreciate it. I really do. It’s just last night you seemed…” He looks mildly confused. “Hesitant, to say the least.”

John looks away from the greying man. “I wasn’t too keen on it at first,” he says, “but certain things changed my mind.”

Lestrade nods. “Fair enough.”

“So who exactly am I looking for?” John redirects, “A pirate, I know. But can you be more specific?”

Lestrade frowns. “I thought you knew about _The Skull_?”

“Vaguely,” John confirms, “but only as much as anyone else.”

Gregory sighs and leans forward very seriously. “Sherlock Holmes is a very dangerous man.” He looks at John through a serious expression.

“Sorry.” Watson shakes his head. “Who?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade repeats, “feared captain of _The Skull_. He’s a tall man, dark hair, long black coat, surprisingly well-kept for a pirate, really. He’s incredibly smart.” He frowns. “Too smart. He can see absolutely every part of you with one look. It’s like he’s a—”

“John!” A female voice calls out, and John sees his sister in a pastel blue gown, dashing down the walk towards him, not a hint of last night’s drunkenness in her gait.

The captain glowers at her approaching figure, but his expression softens when her tear-streaked face comes into view.

“When Lestrade told me you were leaving so soon I just- I couldn’t-” The woman breaks down into a fresh wave of tears. “Why are you leaving me?”

“I’m not leaving you.” John is overcome with a wave of guilt. He _is_ leaving her. She’s the reason he changed his mind and decided to go on this godforsaken voyage. “You’ve known how I want to return to the sea. It’s my home.”

She turns her bloodshot eyes up at her brother. “But what about _our_ home?”

John shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Harry, dear.” He embraces her briefly. “You’ll be in good hands. Commodore Lestrade has arranged for you to have some wholesome female company. He’s sending his most trustworthy maid, Clara, to live in our house with you to make sure you’re alright.”

Harriet nods through her sadness, wiping at her eyes with her now ruined gloves. “When will you be back?”

John glances back at Lestrade, who shakes his head. “I’m not sure, Harry. However long it takes.”

The hysterical woman nods understandingly and takes a step back. She steels herself, and gives a stronger nod to her brother, who returns it with a smile.

“I love you, Harry,” he says, “I’ll miss you.” He gives her one last hug, and she clings tightly to his shoulders. “I’ll send you letters as often as possible.”

She laughs sadly. “No you won’t, you great sod.” She releases his arms from her death grip and lightly hits him on the shoulder. “Just don’t get yourself killed, alright?”

John smiles widely. “No guarantees.”

With that, he turns to Lestrade and the two stride down the dock until they are confronted with a regal, blue-green ship. She is well-shined and cared for, with new, crisp sails and clean windows. Along the side she reads “HMS Hudson” in big, gold letters, and the figurehead is of a kindly woman, unlike the dramatic ones seen on many other ships, and she smiles gently at the sky. The _Hudson_ herself doesn’t seem like a warship, but telltale squares along the ship’s sides hide dozens of gunports, their threats surely able to be fulfilled.

The captain smiles up at his new command. “I take it she’s new?”

Lestrade beams proudly at the _Hudson_. “Just finished. She’s the fastest ever made—more than a match for the fearsome speed of _The Skull_. I even handpicked her crew.” Gregory looks as chuffed as possible, and John feels he should throw the man a bone.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, “and I’m proud to be her captain.”

“As you should be.” The commodore beams at his friend. “Wait until you meet your crew. You would not believe who happened to surface when we searched for a suitable second to you—and he still wants to venture out despite you being captain!”

The two men make their way onto the ship, and in the midst of the setting-off activities John spots a familiar face. “Michael! Michael Stamford!”

A broad man turns around and catches sight of John. “Watson, my friend!” The two grin at one another.

“I told you that you wouldn’t believe it.” Lestrade smiles at the pair. “Captain Stamford was our second choice for command, but when you confirmed he still wanted to be a part of the voyage. I hope you don’t mind having two captains aboard, John.”

“Not at all!” He remarks, still amazed at the appearance of his old friend. “I trust that we’ll be made all the safer by it, in fact.”

“Then by all means, be off.” Lestrade nods and weaves his way through the crew members and off the ship.

With raised eyebrows, Stamford notices the crutch that Watson is fiddling with and comments on it. “That’s a fine cane, that is. I hope you don’t need it for anything—do you?”

John feels himself go slightly red about the ears. “I’m sad to say that I do.” He shifts his weight. “I was wounded a few months back and I can’t walk right anymore.” He gives a relieved chuckle. “I’m just glad they let me back on any ship with it. I was getting restless.”

His friend nods understandingly. “I’m glad they did as well.”

A man in his early twenties approaches the pair. “Sorry to interrupt, sirs, but the ship is ready to cast off.”

“What’s your name, lad?” John asks. The younger but taller man stutters.

“I-I’m Godfrey Norton, sir,” he stumbles over his words, clearly unused to being asked for anything other than a task.

“Thank you, Norton,” John says, and Norton turns tentatively and leaves the two captains’ company.

Watson and Stamford make their way to the helm of the ship, where a few young navigators are pouring over maps. As soon as they notice the captains’ presence, they snap to attention.

“Where to, sir?” The eldest one inquires.

John glances down at the maps. It takes him mere moments to find the exact city he wants to go to and point to it. The navigator sputters.

“Are you sure?” He questions, not understanding of why the _Hudson_ would be going to such a place.

The captain frowns and gives the navigator a pointed look. The other man simply nods, and goes about shouting orders at the other working men.

A short time later, the ship is pulling away from the dock. Harriet and Lestrade stand at the end waving “good bye,” Lestrade amiably and Harry through tears. It isn’t long before the two become indistinguishable from the rest of the rapidly shrinking land.

“So,” Stamford begins, “where are we off to?”

John smiles. “Bakerstown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wanted to know, the kid's full name is actually William Wilhelm Fitzwilliam. If you wanted to know.


	3. Bakerstown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight format change, guys! It wasn't intentional. If you were to look at my original document, the entire story is like this, it's just that stupid microsoft doesn't count autotabs as actual tabs, and therefore the Prologue and Chapter 1 got messed up.
> 
> But anyways, here you all go! Chapter 2 is here on this Thursday, just as I promised.
> 
> If you have a Tumblr and you want to be linked to this as it updates, my Tumblr is AZPianist-Matterless and I send out a link to each new chapter just minutes after it's posted on Ao3.
> 
> Also: ksjdbfnkjasndkjc stupid Ao3 won't let me edit this chapter anymore so ignore the header that's just how I format it in my copy.

**Chapter 2—Bakerstown**

The day-long journey to Bakerstown is a productive one on John Watson’s part. He spends the period getting to know his crew—quite successfully. Several of the men he had met before on prior voyages, all of whom he was pleased to see (with the exception of Tobias Gregson, who had always been a bit of a show-off) and the others were happily met. Stamford had been indispensable during that time, helping John limp about the ship in an attempt to familiarize him with its layout. This was unsuccessful.

            “So the next room over is the…” John bites his lip, “…I have no idea.”

            Michael laughs. “You were always dismal with directions, but this is ridiculous.”

            A shout comes from overhead, and John grins. “However much I enjoy you insulting my intelligence, I think we’re at Bakerstown.”

            The two climb up the stairs to the main deck, where men are rushing about to prepare the ship for approach. A cloud of smoke hangs over a smattering of green land in the distance. Smaller ships hang about the port town, with one large, daunting ship at the end of the pier.

            “ _The Skull,_ ” Stamford points out, and John nods in agreement.

            Watson limps up to the ship’s helm, where Norton is piloting their path. “Take us about the island to the public port,” he commands.

            Norton gives a quizzical look. “Sorry, sir, what?”

            “Take us to the public port,” John repeats, “and drape something over the edge, enough to cover at least the ‘HMS’ part of our title. And for God’s sake lower the Navy flag; do you _want_ them to recognize us?”

            Norton just nods and turns the wheel carefully. Another one of the officers that had been there rushed to relay the captain’s message to a few others, who seize a cloth that had been lying on deck and begin to place it along the rail. The naval flag is lowered and carefully hidden away in the captain’s quarters. The _Hudson_ is still conspicuous, but it will is less obvious than if it were quickly identifiable as one of the Navy.

            John goes to the rail overlooking the main deck, and yells: “by the time we reach the port, nobody is to be wearing a uniform, have you all got that?”

            His men shout their understanding, and John smiles. He doubts that he could have gotten a better crew than this one.

            By the time the _Hudson_ pulls slowly up to the pier, every man on her is dressed in civilian clothes, including their captain, who is now indistinguishable from the rest of them, save for his cane. Their story is a consistent one, and had any man on board been asked why they were there they would recite that their business was a private one on the behalf of a wealthy merchant—not that anyone would.

            With the ship successfully docked and provided for—thanks to Michael Stamford—Watson hobbles up the dock and towards the main body of town as the first fingers of evening creep into the sky. With any luck, he should be able to tentatively locate the other captain before twilight and have the map by tomorrow.

            “Oi! Wait for me!” Stamford calls from behind him. John smirks and turns around, still walking.

            “Walk faster!” He laughs as Michael catches up to him, and it’s just like when they were in school together. John hits his friend on the shoulder, and Stamford hits him back. The two laugh as they stride towards town.

            Nothing can last, though.

            Evening is quickly approaching, and the entire sky is alight with blues and pinks, casting a warm glow over Bakerstown. Threadbare buildings sit, crammed together, some tipping slightly inwards over the dirt road through the middle of town. With the onset of darkness, people begin to populate the streets, talking and laughing over one another. Someone lights an oil lamp in one of the windows. The light filters out over a sleeping urchin, curled up in the mud beside a barrel. A man stumbles out of a building and trips over the sleeping man, waking him and falling flat on his own face in the dirt. The previously sleeping man yells at the fallen one, and John sidesteps the arguing pair. The smells of meat and ale are filling the streets, accompanied by the sounds of music and discussion. Soon enough there will be drunken antics to contend with—hopefully not involving the crew of the _Hudson_.

            Two of women with tall hair and bright dresses are giggling with one another, leaning over a box in the shadows by a crowded pub. The blonde one gives a sideways glance at John and Michael, and she pokes her friend and points them out. They watch the pair of seamen giddily as they walk by, talking about one thing or another about the two they don’t know. Stamford catches sight of them and gives a crooked smile and winks, sending the women into a fit of giggles once more.

            John rolls his eyes at his friend. “Michael, we’re here for pirates, not women.”

            “Oh relax.” He turns and gives John a bemused smile. “It’s a bit of harmless flirtation!”

            The two women sidle up to them, giving what are meant to be seductive smiles but just come off as slightly childish. The blonde one puts a tender hand on John’s arm.

            “What are you two gentlemen doing in a town like this?” She directs the question at the both of them, but she rakes her eyes down John’s form as she does. Her blue gaze pauses on his cane. “Oh, dear, what happened to you?”

            John gives a terse smile at the woman, but directs his glance to the dirt of the road, studying the grains. “I…” He falters, caught between the truth and the pretense he had to keep up.  He settles for a lie by omission. “It’s a long story.”

            “We have time,” she purrs and moves her hand to his chest, pushing her face close to his.

            John’s good leg trembles. “I-” his voice comes out as a squeak, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I’m sure that we—”

            The door to a nearby bar bursts open and a tall figure stumbles out, tripping over the stairs on his way down. John rushes towards the falling man and catches him, pushing him upright. The man smells like alcohol and salt, and his face is pressed hard into John’s shoulder. His back is hunched and his weight is pressed into John, and he would have pushed the captain over were it not for his military training.

            “Dammit,” John curses in a whisper as he attempts to help the fallen man up. “Come on.” He puts his hands on the other’s shoulders and pushes. He pulls himself up to full height dazedly, blinking rapidly. He is taller than John by almost a full head with mussed black hair and a rather confused expression.

            “How’d I get ou’ here?” He slurs, shaking his head. He takes sight of John and he seems to focus a bit more. He gives a goofy smile. “You kep’ me from fallin’!” He exclaims. He claps a lengthy arm around John’s shoulder. “Thanks, friend!”

            “It’s, er,” John mumbles, “not a problem.”

            Another shorter man dashes out of the pub, obviously looking for something. His face is a sheer mask of confusion when he sees the tall man draped over John’s shoulder. “Ca—”

            “Catrick Drebbin, at your service,” the dark-haired man slurs, sticking out an amiable hand—the one not clutched to his shoulder—to John.

            “Ah.” John’s eyebrows raise as he takes Catrick’s hand and shakes it firmly. “John Watson.” He ducks out from under the taller man’s arm, causing him to stumble slightly. “And this is my friend Michael Stamford.”

            “How do you do?” Stamford offers a hand to Catrick, who grins again and shakes it.

            “Nice to mee’ you both!” He points a thumb over his shoulder at the confused man from a moment ago. “And tha’s Richard ‘ope, a very old friend of mine.” He half-turns and gestures for Richard to come over. He follows tentatively.

            Richard gives an unsure smile and shakes John’s, then Michael’s hand. “Yeah.” He gives a quick glance at Catrick, who is still smiling openly. “Don’t mind this here guy, he’s just gone a little off in the head.”

            “Oh it’s fine,” John replies, because it is. Completely. He glances back at the blonde woman who had been so keen on him. She and her friend are now flirting with another pair of men. “We don’t mind in the slightest, do we Michael?”

           Stamford draws his attention from the women reluctantly, but recovers soon enough. “Oh, yes. Perfectly fine. Totally, in fact.”

            Catrick gives a hearty laugh. “Good! I hope you two wouldn’ mind if I treated you to a drink as well, eh?”

            John gives a worried glance at Stamford, who shakes his head almost invisibly. “Well, actually we’re a bit busy—”

            “Oh come, I insist!” Catrick drapes his arm over John’s shoulders again and begins dragging him towards the bar he had just come out of, then stops, swaying slightly. “On secon’ though’.” John almost breathes a sigh of relief. “They jus’ kicked me ou’, we should go ‘ere.” John nearly groans in frustration as Catrick drags him around to another tavern across the street, completely disregarding John’s limp.

            When the four are seated around a square table in the middle of the crowded pub, Catrick asks over a drink “So wha’ brings you two ‘ere?”

            “Private business,” John responds quickly, and Catrick’s gaze lolls quickly to John’s face. His eyes are a cloudy grey-ish color, and in the bright yellow light John can see that his hair is not black, but brown. He clears his throat and returns his attention to his lie. “Sorry, can’t say much else.”

            Catrick cocks his head. “Oh, come on. It’s not like it could do any ‘arm! Who’d know you tol’ us?”

            John glances at his pocketwatch. “Sorry, mate. Can’t do it.”

            Catrick nods bemusedly. “Alrigh’ then.” His expression suddenly turns very serious and he leans in confidentially. “I’s no’ on the business of pirates, is i’?”

            Watson chokes on his drink, but passes it off as a laugh. “Pirates? God no.” He smiles as amiably as possible. “Why, do you get a lot of pirates around here?”

            Catrick frowned. “No’ really, but they’re no’ uncommon, y’know?” He leaned back, suddenly shockingly sober. “Bu’ with _The Skull_ here, you never know wha’ to expect.”

            “Sorry.” John blinked with feigned surprise. “What?”

            Catrick gave a wave in the vague direction of the large black ship that was docked nearby. “ _The Skull_ has been docked ‘ere for a few days now.” He gets a worried look, as if he’s just realized something important. “They’re tryin’ to, y’know, _recruit_ people! Goin’ around askin’ ‘who wants to be a pirate?’ I’s absurd!” He glances about cautiously, then leans forward again and gestures for John to do so as well. “Tha’s the reason they kicked me ou’. I’s no’ ‘cause I’m drunk—I said no to their captain when ‘e asked me to join.”

            John can still smell the alcohol that’s drenched the other man, and there’s still a telltale slur in his otherwise sober words.

            Catrick gives a resolute nod and leans back once more. A man holding two mugs runs into his reclining form, spilling some beer down his front. Catrick gives a scandalized look. “Wha’ d’you think you’re doin’?” He stands mildly drunkenly, giving the offending man an appalled look.

            The shorter, stockier man that ran into Catrick snarls. “What do _you_ think you’re doing? You made me spill my drinks!” He slams the half-emptied mugs onto a nearby table, sending most of the remaining fluid out.

            John sees where this is going. He stands up and limps between the two. “Hey, hey. It was an accident, right Catrick?” He turns to the brunette and gives him a pointed look. He ignores him in favor of glaring at the other man over John’s head. “Men, please—”

            “What are _you_ going to do about it, cane-man?” The other man is taller than John already, but he straightens his back and tilts up his blond head menacingly. “Hit me with your stick?”

            John takes a deep breath to calm his rising anger. “Please, we really don’t need this here.”

            “I’ll do whatever I damn well want!” The blond man glowers at John, who holds his gaze firmly.

            Catrick decides it’s a brilliant time to jump in. “Don’ insult my friend!” He pushes John out of the way and socks the other man in the side of the face.

            The aggressor roars at the blow and lunges at Catrick, knocking the thin man to the ground. John grabs the brute by the shoulders, and he swings an arm back and it makes contact with John’s stomach. John yells, then hits the blond man hard over the head with his cane. He freezes for a moment, then slowly turns and glares at John with feral rage.

            John gulps.

            Just then, Catrick frees one of his arms and whacks the larger male off of him, jumping up with lithe ease.

            The blond man pushes himself to his feet, then makes a rush at John. Catrick steps between them and punches him in the stomach, redirecting his attention.

            John stumbles back as the two men continue to fight. His bad leg is throbbing, and he’s panting from the momentary rush of adrenaline that accompanied hitting the stocky man with his cane.

            Michael Stamford pushes forward and grabs John’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, and John agrees. They make it out of the pub before any attention can be returned to the two hiding naval officers.

            The sounds of the fight are still loud as John and Michael stand in the dirt street. John glances up at the darkened sky, then at Stamford.

            “Well, that was a waste of time!” Stamford laughs.

            “No, not quite.” John smiles, thoroughly pleased with what has been found out. “We confirmed that _The Skull_ is here, and that Holmes is recruiting, just like Lestrade said. The only thing left is to catch them.”

            “Yeah,” Michael replies, “if that drunken idiot was telling the truth.”

            John turns his head towards the bar that Catrick had initially stumbled out of. “He claimed that he was kicked out of there because he refused to join _The Skull_. We could start there?”

            John’s companion frowns as he looks at the building. “I suppose we could.”

            Inside the bar, like Catrick had said, sits several rugged looking men at a table with an immense line in front of it. A dark-haired man—Sherlock Holmes?—sits at the center of them, talking disappointedly with one of the applicants in front of them. He points his finger at the man then points to the door, and the man hangs his head. The one sitting scribbles something down on a piece of paper and the next man in line strides up, and so the cycle begins again.

            John turns to Stamford and gives him a triumphant look, who returns it with an eye roll.

            “Still not convinced?” John asks. He limps up to the bar. “Um, excuse me.” He smiles kindly at the short barmaid. Her aged face remains impassive. “What’s that going on over there?” He points to the line.

            “Pirates,” she grunts, “muddying up my bar. Again!” She slams a glass down onto the table and glares at the men. “It’s the bloody _Skull_ taking applications for some trip. Supposedly it’ll make them all rich. Pah!” She flicks a hand and snatches up the discarded glass. She straightens then stares intensely at John. “You’re not one of those nuts who wants to join them, are you?”

            John laughs and shakes his head. “No, I’m not. I was just wondering what all the commotion was about.”

            She softens marginally. “Good. It would be a shame to lose yet another respectable man to piracy.”

            “Why don’t you just kick them out if you don’t like them so much?”

            “They’re good for business.” She sighs. “When they’re here, people buy drinks. It keeps me in business, it does.” She steels herself again. “But I don’t like it. I’ll tolerate it, but don’t have to like it.”

            John nods understandingly. “Ah, well thank—”

            “OI! GET OFF MY TABLES!” She screams at a pair of men who, in their drunkenness, have climbed up on a table and begun singing. She rushes off to beat them down.

            John takes advantage of the distraction to slip off towards the entrance and back to Stamford. “It’s _The Skull_ ,” he confirms, “and apparently they’ve come here before.”

            “That’s a bit not smart on their part, isn’t it?” Stamford watches as the barmaid jumps and yells at the inebriated men to get down. “Going to the same place, I mean. Wouldn’t they know that they’ll be noticed?”

            John frowns. “I’d assume so. There’s something weird about this whole thing. How did Lestrade know that they come here and not do anything about it sooner?”

            Stamford shrugs. “He probably found out right before the theft. You’re so suspicious, John. It’s not like the John Watson I knew.”

            “I’m not the—” John is cut off by a particularly loud scream from the barmaid as one of the men who had been on the table topples onto her. Several others rush at him.

            “We should be leaving,” John says.

            Michael nods. “Yes. The _Hudson_ needs us. More than these drunkards do, at least.”

            John chuckles and the two begin the trek back through town to his ship.

            It is a few minutes before either of them speaks again. “So what are we going to do about _The Skull_?” Stamford asks.

            “I think,” John says, “it is probably safest to attack them on the sea, where we have the advantage.”

            Stamford nods in agreement. “So once they leave port, we follow and attack?”

            “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” John glances out at the large black ship, looming dauntingly at the other end of town. “The moment Holmes’s ship is out of view of town, we strike.”

            Michael raises an imaginary cup. “Cheers, to the end of the pirates!”

            John laughs and raises an imaginary glass of his own. “Cheers, mate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god you have no idea how fun Catrick was to write! It was like writing Harry all over again except better because he's not antagonizing poor John.
> 
> Chapter 3 will be up next Friday, and that's where things start to get interesting (I think. Or perhaps thats Chapter 6 where-)


	4. Meet the Captain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 3, guys! Sorry it's a bit shorter than the previous ones, but I had some rather... prominent issues with writing this chapter for some reason. Anyways, enjoy!
> 
> If you have a Tumblr and you want to be linked to the Archive of Our Own version as it updates, my Tumblr is AZPianist-Matterless and I send out a link to each new chapter just minutes after it's posted here.

            John wakes to a ship in motion. A docked ship.

            Wait, what?

            He sits up straight in bed, hair mussed and eyes only half-open. The ship is barely rocking, and the sounds of a wake trail behind. The _Hudson_ is moving, and he never gave the order.

            Then who, for God’s sake, _did?_

            John gropes frantically for his cane, and, unable to find it in the dark hours of the morning, does his best to limp to the door of his cabin. Upon stumbling to the entryway, the captain wrenches the handle. It doesn’t budge.

            Had John had full use of his leg, he would’ve slammed into the door until it splintered. Instead, he beats the wood helplessly, yelling for help.

            It takes him a full five minutes of non-stop yelling and knocking to realize that nobody is going to help him.

            John lets his head fall dejectedly against the white door and pants. His throat hurts and his fists hurt, and upon examining his knuckles closer he discovers that they’re bleeding.

            For lack of a better course of action, John pushes himself up from the door and limps towards his wardrobe, leg worse than ever. With his injured hands he carefully pulls open the armoire and grabs a scrap of cloth he had set aside for a similar occasion out of habit. He rips it up and wraps it over his bleeding hands gingerly.

            He sits down on his bed and sighs. There is nothing he can do in his current state. Two years ago John would have climbed out the window and scaled the side of his ship to disarm whoever the mutineers were or died trying, but even a passing attempt at that now would ruin him for sure. The beginnings of frustrated tears prickle the corners of John’s eyes and he glares at the floor. Not a day into their journey and his crew has already been swayed to the side of the enemy. Was he really that bad of a captain?

            The sounds of the moving ship are interrupted by a sharp _click_. John immediately looks to the door. The ornate brass handle turns with a _thunk_ and the door swings open. Two men calmly stride into the room. The taller of the two blinks a single black eye at John, and the other scratches at his thick blond beard.

            Without a word, both men wrench John up by his arms. They’re both stronger and taller than the captain, and they lift his struggling form with ease.

            “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” John kicks frantically. “Put me down! Who the hell _are_ you?!”

            The pair carries the protesting John out of his quarters and onto the main deck. The sky is black and filled with stars—not that their captive notices in his struggle to be released. He thrashes his head side to side and swings his entire body.

            Out of the corner of his eye, John catches sight of some of his men tied to the main mast of the ship, gagged and guarded by the silhouettes of foreign figures. The sight is comes almost as a relief: this isn’t mutiny. The relief, however, is flushed out as soon as it enters his system. If it wasn’t mutiny, then it had to be ambush.

            This can’t be good.

            The two men gripping John’s arms tighten their holds as he thrashes harder. They carry the protesting man to the stairs that lead to the helm of the ship. John gives a yell and kicks the man holding his right arm. His grip loosens, just for a moment, but it’s enough for John to wrench his arm out of his grasp. He punches the other man hard in the face, sending him reeling. The first man grabs John by the shoulders and is able to hold him by his upper arms, lifting the short captain as his friend recovers.

            “PUT ME DOWN YOU STUPID SON OF A BI—!”

            The bearded-man’s fist makes contact John’s chest, and he can’t breathe—much less fight back. John is left hanging limp in the two men’s grasps, gasping for breath.

            He is carried up the stairs to the helm. A short man—one shorter that John—stands at the wheel, looking far too happy as John passes by. He gives the captive man a friendly wave, which he, even if his arms had been free, would not return. The new helmsman seems not to mind and continues grinning happily at everything.

            At the back of the deck stands a tall, dark-haired man in a black coat looking at the sea. John can barely see the fading lights of Bakerstown in the distance. He hadn’t noticed the large ship looking beside the _Hudson_ — _The Skull_. The pirate ship looms tall over the Navy vessel, but only in mast. John knows that the _Hudson_ is faster, and that’s all that matters in an escape.

            The tall man’s back is to John, but he turns his head to address his captive, keeping his face hidden. “I take it you are Captain John Watson?” His deep voice sends vibrations through John’s chest, and the pleasantness of the sound surprises him.

          John clears his throat, and, with the strongest voice he can muster, replies: “I am. And you Sherlock Holmes?”

            “Captain,” Holmes corrects, “Captain Sherlock Holmes.”

            “I saw you in the bar,” John blurts, not quite knowing what he’s doing, “you were taking volunteers for your crew.”

            Holmes head jerks back minutely, and from what John can tell, gives a small laugh. “Was I now?”

            John snarls. “It was pathetic.”

            “One shouldn’t judge what one does not know,” the pirate replies. He stares still at the shimmering black ocean, back to his captive captain.

            “I’ll judge what I want,” John snaps, “and I met someone who defied you. You kicked him out.”

            “And you trusted this stranger?” John can practically hear the smugness in the dark-haired man’s voice, and he gets the disconcerting sensation that he’s missed something terribly important.

            “Not more than a minute,” he confesses, “but there is no reason to doubt his story—he was drunk.”

            “Was he.” It is not a question, but a statement, and Holmes turns around. In the moonlight, John can make out pale skin and high cheekbones framing piercingly green eyes that practically glowed. Despite the coldness in his expression, John can barely see the face of—

            “Catrick Drebbin?” He gasps, voice betraying his surprise.

            Holmes scoffs. “Surprised?” His hands fold behind his back, and he makes his way slowly towards John. “You shouldn’t be. You should have been able to see there was something off about this ‘Catrick’ fellow, so I hardly feel sympathy for your ignorant idiocy.”

            John glares.

            Holmes smirks.

            “What was the point,” John growls, “of acting drunk to talk to us?”

            “I had to get to know you.” Holmes brushes the lapel of his jacket. “The first thirty seconds were plenty of time, but it would be suspicious to meet a drunken stranger who didn’t insist on buying you drinks, wouldn’t it?”

            “You don’t know me.” John’s rage is bubbling up, like an untended spark about to be fanned into a flame. “You didn’t talk to me, you just babbled at me!”

            “I know more about you then Stamford,” Holmes replies coolly, “perhaps more than your sister. Does she know that she takes after your father in her drunkenness?”

            For a moment, the tiny spark of anger is doused into a barely simmering coal. Then, with a rush, it bursts into a full-blown inferno. “How the hell could you know that? Who are you?!” John kicks again at his captors with no more success at escaping than earlier.

            “I’ve already told you—weren’t you listening?” Holmes frowns and draws his eyebrows together. “It doesn’t matter either way. I assume Lestrade sent you?”

            “It’s none of your business who sent me,” John protests, “and even if it were I would never tell you.”

            “That’s a ‘yes,’ then.” Holmes smiles.

            John can barely contain his fury at the smug smile that Holmes wears. “What does it matter who sent me? You have me on your bloody ship already, just get it over with!”

            Holmes tilts his head and raises an eyebrow momentarily, but then his eyes light with understanding. “Oh, you think I’m going to kill you.” He smirks.

            “You’re not?” John stops kicking momentarily.

            “Oh no,” Holmes replies, “that would be far too kind.”

            John renews his struggle. “Why are you doing this?”

            “Bored.”

            “What?”

            “Bored!” Holmes’s eyes flash, and John shivers from the intimidating intensity.

            “That-” he stutters, “that doesn’t-”

            “It would make perfect sense if anyone were to pay attention,” Holmes quips. “I have no need for you here anymore. Take our guest captain to me new captain’s quarters.” He grins, and John knows perfectly well that he is referring to John’s room.

            “No, thank you.” John glares at the other captain. “I’d prefer to stay with my men if you don’t mind.”

            Holmes smirks. “Sacrificing comfort for your crew? How quaint. Take him and his men down into the brig.”

            “O’ which ship, sir?” The black-eyed man holding John asks.

            Holmes studies John a moment before replying. “This one’s going to fight like mad for his freedom, and I can hardly blame him. But how humiliating is it to be unable to escape from your own prison?”

            John thought the boiling rage in him couldn’t get any hotter. It does, and it permeates his gaze.

            “Very, it seems.”

            “Um,” the other man starts, “so wait, _which_ ship?”

            “The _Hudson_ you idiot!” Holmes yells, and the two men jump.

            The crew on the main deck begins working frantically to untie the bound men to transfer them into the ship.

            John frowns.

            “You have questions,” Holmes states.

            John’s head whips from his men to the insufferable captain. “Where’s the rest of them?”

            “Deserted or drown,” he states. “Next.”

            John is momentarily dazed by the other man’s apathy then remembers that he’s dealing with a pirate. “How did you capture us without waking me?”

            “Simple.” Holmes smiles. “We had a rat.” He gestures to one of the men who is pushing John’s crew into the belly of the ship. It’s Godfrey Norton.

            John sighs—there’s nothing better he can do. “You can trust no one.”

            “No you cannot,” Holmes confirms. He strides to the edge of the _Hudson_ and shouts to his ship: “Roylott! Sholto! Restrain Jones: he’s about to mutiny.”

            There is a relatively small scuffle on the deck of _The Skull_. The man in question is dragged into the ship with screams of “you bastards!” and “there’s no way you could have known that!”

            John gapes at Holmes. “How—?”

            “I pay attention,” he explains without turning around. “He’s been planning this for some time, and now was the best time for him to enact it, ergo, I order the capture of the perpetrator. It’s simple logic really, do keep up.”

            “How did you know he was planning it, though?” John imagines that he sounds rather foolish, asking such a question. It cannot be helped; John has no understanding of the pirate’s ways, much less any understanding of his mind.

            Holmes turns with a flourish. “The same way I knew you lived with your sister who takes after your drunkard father.” His face is blank and his eyes pierce straight through John, as if he can see every thought that goes through the other man’s mind. After experiencing what he just had, John wouldn’t be surprised if he could.

            “But how?”

            Holmes simply smirks. “Take him down to his friends.”

            John doesn’t struggle when he is carried down into the hull of his ship, through still unfamiliar corridors and into an even less familiar holding area. He is pushed roughly into the same cell as his peers.

            John makes a mental list of who he still has left. There are a good twenty men accompanying him, including Stamford. He is relieved to see that his old friend hadn’t abandoned him. Of the others, John recognizes a few petty sailors, a cook, and a navigator; the rest are a mystery to him.

            The captain stands up straight and adjusts his bedclothes as the metal door squeaks shut behind him. The sound of the lock clicking into place fills the cell with a sense of hopelessness that John is sure they all feel. Those left of his crew look despondent. Many sit along the floor, but a few lean against the bars of their prison. A man that John is yet unfamiliar with faces away from the group, clinging helplessly to the iron rods. It is a dismal sight, and John feels the need to fix that.

            The captain has never been particularly good with words, but he decides to give it his best shot. “I… I’m not quite sure how this happened,” he begins awkwardly, “but I’m sure that it’s none of your faults.”

            There is an empty pause as John gathers what to say next. “I’m sorry.”

            A few of the men turn to John with looks of sheer confusion painted on their otherwise sallow faces.

            “We could have done better. But that doesn’t mean we can’t do well now.”

            “But we’re locked up.” The man who had been clinging to the bars lets his head fall against his hands as he speaks. “It’s not like we can magically walk through bars.”

            “Lucky for you, we don’t have to.” Stamford pushes himself up from his crouching position in the corner of the cell. “I had the oddest inclination last night to put these on me.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a ring with four metal keys dangling off of it, clanging into each other happily.

            John grins. “Brilliant!” He remarks, and Stamford shrugs.

            “Good luck, really.” He grins back.

            The others there look at one another with slight hints of hope and excitement. The possibility that they could retake their ship runs hot in their veins, making fluttering dances through their hearts.

            John rubs his hands together joyfully. “Well, now we have the beginnings of a plan. And luckily for us, they underestimate us vastly.”

            “Not to mention they’re newer to this ship than we are,” Michael chimes in.

            “Aye, that too. They’re disorganized—we’ll be able to overpower them easily enough if we act swiftly and efficiently in the next few hours.” John raises a fist and exclaims, “Who’s with me?”

            The other men give a shout and John smiles widely. They may have been caught early on, but they can certainly get out just a swiftly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DRAMATIC REVELATION OMG GUYS
> 
> *ahem* sorry. As I said, this chapter was hard to write. It ended up not being what I had intended. As a matter of fact, I had originally intended this and the next chapter to just be one chapter, then I discovered that they were best split. Regardless, next chapter will be out on Thursday of next week as always. Hopefully I should also have chapter 7 written by then. If I don't, then I have a bit of a problem.


	5. Siege

            “Please… Please let me out! I can’t stand this!” A singular voice cries out through the commotion in the cell at the bottom of the ship. “Please let me out!”

            There is shouting and talking and kicking and scratching as Captain Sherlock Holmes steps down into the hold with a snarl. “What is going on here?”

            A man’s thin arm reaches between the bars low to the ground, and the head it is connected to presses desperately against the metal. “Please let me out, sir! I can’t stay here!”

            “Deserter!” “Traitor!” “Bastard!” The bodies crowded around the hunched, pleading form yell curses and insults as they paw angrily at his clothes.

            Sherlock picks out Watson’s form in the fray; he’s trying to pull the aggressors away from the man in question. Sherlock catches his eye and smirks. Watson looks disgusted and ignores him.

            “Let him out,” Sherlock says over his shoulder to the crewman, Ferrier, behind him, sharp eyes not wavering away from the scene in front of him.

            “Thank you,” the crumpled man breathes, “thank you!”

            He is released from the cell with no little effort to keep the other men in, but when his is free he clings to the bottom of Sherlock’s pitch black coat like a disciple to his messiah.

            Sherlock glares down at the manic ex-prisoner. “Let go of me.”

            The clinging man meets Sherlock’s stare timidly and immediately releases the captain, sinking back to the floor. “S-sorry, sir.”

            Sherlock brushes his coat down flat again. “I assume you wish to join me?”

            The shouting from the cell increases in volume. Arms protrude through the bars like branches, and they sway angrily in the winds of betrayal.

            “Yes, sir.” The desperate young man nods vehemently, and pleading honesty shines through his eyes. It’s his first time being the part of a crew, and obviously his first run-in with pirates. He cushioned life before he left, and he wasn’t expecting brig conditions when he got out (obvious). His girlfriend didn’t want him to leave—she begged him not to go, even gave him her kerchief—but he did anyways (said it was for the honor, really because he’s not interested in her anymore; he prefers a _stronger_ presence). He’s loyal and honest and would make a tolerable addition to Sherlock’s crew— _obvious_.

            Sherlock smiles facetiously. Too much obvious information, not enough interesting information. If only Watson were clever enough to use some ploy— _any_ ploy—to attempt escape. If he were, then perhaps there would be some use in this mundane journey. “Welcome aboard.”

            A grateful grin splits the man’s face. “Oh thank you, thank you!"

            “On your feet,” Sherlock commands.                            

            The still-caged men yell in protest at their rising peer, and the sound finally becomes unbearable.

            “Silence!” Sherlock snaps, but they continue. He glares at the smirking Watson. “Back to the deck.” He spins around and stalks back up to the main deck, where the ruckus is muted. He is followed by the awed and silent freed man.

            “What is your name?” Sherlock asks brusquely without turning to face him.

            “H-Henry, sir,” he stutters.

            “Last name.”

            “Baker, sir.”

            “Stop being so timid, Baker.” Sherlock snaps.

            Baker stands a bit straighter and attempts to mask his nervousness. “Yes, sir.”

            Sherlock flicks his eyes up and down Baker. “You’re loyal. Good. I can trust you. You’d never betray your captain.”

            “Never,” Baker shakes his head resolutely, though there are still a few errant trembles betraying his nerves.

            “Of course.” Sherlock tilts his head and studies the other man for a bit longer. Every facet of the man exudes loyalty, which seems a bit premature but is a good trait to develop quickly nonetheless. “You know this ship well.”

            “Yes, sir,” Baker confirms.

            “You know how to man her?”

            Baker frowns lightly. “Um, yes, sir.”

            “Congratulations, temporary Captain Baker, you just earned yourself a spot on the HMS _Hudson._ ” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, waiting to ascertain his reaction.

            Baker’s eyes widen, but he otherwise attempts to restrain his shock and excitement. “Are- what?”

            “You are to make sure that this ship is in the best possible condition over the course of the next few hours.” Sherlock points to the East horizon. “When the sun surfaces, all control is relinquished to me. Until then, you control every action on this ship.”

            “I-” Baker pauses, “yes, sir.”

            “Good.” Sherlock nods. “You can start by giving me that key.” He holds out his hand expectantly.

            Baker looks shocked. “Key?”

            “Yes, key, the one to the supply hold that you keep on your person at all times.” He keeps his hand out impatiently.

            Completely surprised, Baker extracts the key from his ripped jacket’s pocket and places it gingerly in the captain’s pale outstretched palm.

            Sherlock smiles tersely. “Thank you,” he says, “that is most helpful.” He starts towards the juncture between the two ships.

            “Wait, sir!” Baker calls, “what about your crew?”

            “There’s none here other than Ferrier who is at the helm,” Sherlock responds without turning around, “he’s incapacitated. You’ll have to inspect the ship yourself. Oh, and stay away from the brig.”

            And with that Sherlock crosses to his own ship, leaving Baker on his own to tend to the vessel.

            A small, wooden ball bounces down the stairs and into the hold. It rolls along the swaying floor uncertainly, then makes a lurch forward towards the metal bars that hold the remaining crew of the _Hudson_. A heavy door creaks open and hits the little ball, knocking it into a corner, damp with salt water.

            John is the first to step tentatively out of the cell. He smiles into the dark silence of the room. “Let’s go,” he whispers. He swings the door open completely and holds it open as the rest of the men slip out of the cell and huddle about the base of the stairs.

            Stamford is the last out. John smiles at his old friend gratefully. “I don’t know where we would be without you, Michael.”

            He laughs. “Well, we’d still be in that damned prison, now wouldn’t we?”

            Still smiling, John turns to address the rest of his crew. “We don’t know how many men are up there,” he says, “but there could be fifty, or there could be four. Regardless, it’s best to stay out of sight rather than to run out screaming. I’m going to go up and look, then we’ll start sending people up one at a time.”

            John pokes his eyes up over the edge of the dock just in time to see Henry tug at one of the ropes securing the sails. He glares up at the white canvas, then turns in John’s direction and leans against the mast. His eyes rake across the deck, sweeping calmly over John’s blond head. He scratches the bridge of his nose with a single finger, then turns back to messing with the ropes.

            “There’s only one,” John whispers down to Stamford, who relays the message to the rest of the crew.

            John’s cautious blue gaze flicks to _The Skull_. There are only two men on the deck and fire light streams through the windows of the captain’s quarters. John smiles. With Holmes preoccupied, this escape should go rather well.

            “John.” Stamford tugs at John’s coat. “This is our only chance left at getting the map—we have to do it!”

            John frowns. If they run without the map, there would be no way for the British Navy to get it at all. If they attempt to get the map, however, there runs the risk of the _Hudson_ getting recaptured. The captain sighs.

            “I doubt that Holmes has the map anywhere other than on him, and we don’t have nearly enough men to overtake his entire crew. We have to leave it.”

            Stamford’s face is shadowed with a conflicted expression. “I… We won’t get another chance, though.”

            “I know,” John says, “but this chance isn’t a chance for us, it’s a chance for them. If we fail, they get something much more valuable than the map; they get the _Hudson._ ”

            Stamford pauses for a moment, then nods. “We have to keep the _Hudson_ from them.”

            “Good. Now send the first man up—we’re losing time.”

            One by one, the twenty men who had been hiding under the deck are shuffled out into hidden areas amongst the moonlit ship. A swell of wind teases the bound sails, causing one of the foresails to come undone. The canvas material rushes down and unfurls completely with a _snap,_ and Baker rushes towards it to draw it again.

            “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” One of the men of _The Skull_ yells over.

            “Sorry!” Baker responds, tugging on the corresponding rope and redrawing the sail. “The wind loosened the bond!”

            The man who had yelled glares and grunts before stomping below deck, leaving the entire surface of _The Skull_ empty.

            Stamford sneaks up the stairs to the helm, hiding in the shadows and just out of sight of Ferrier. Ferrier turns his head towards _The Skull_ , and using that opportunity Stamford darts behind the helmsman, preparing for attack.

            John dashes low across the deck towards the junction between the two ships. He ducks to the side, hiding in the dark by the bulwark. He pulls a small chisel out of his pocket, and begins disconnecting the bridge that had been attached between the two ships. He taps gently at the thick nails used to bind the wood of the bridge to the deck, and the first raises slowly and with effort. John stops after only a half-centimeter of progress and two minutes making that progress to examine the nails more thoroughly. The serrations on the side of the nails are designed to permanently hold the bridge to the _Hudson_ , presumably so the two ships can be connected at any time. It is a clever idea—although he hadn’t expected anything less of Sherlock Holmes.

            Regardless of the cleverness, John frowns. There is no possible way for John to remove the bridge from the _Hudson_ in enough time to escape.

            The side attached to _The Skull,_ however, hangs on two metal hooks for easy attachment and removal. He sighs. The only way to disconnect the two ships is to cross over and unhook the bridge.

            John creeps carefully into the pale light of the night, hunched protectively over himself. The gap between the two ships is a few mere feet, but the short distance is long enough that he could easily be seen.

            He sighs shakily and goes onto his hands and knees. He presses a calloused palm to the first beam of the bridge tentatively, sighs once more, then quickly crawls across. The bridge is surprisingly quiet through the whole thing, and John successfully slides into the darkness cast by the wall of _The Skull_.

            The deck is deserted and silently rocking. The paint seems to absorb the moonlight, and John feels like he’s being sucked into an endless vortex of black. It’s shockingly well-kept by comparison to the crew that tends it.

            A creak from behind interrupts John’s thoughts. He whips his head around, and for a moment he thinks he sees a retreating figure. He frowns. It must be the light.

            The interruption serves to bring John back to the task at hand. He glances at the _Hudson_ , where Baker has his saber poised to loose the main sail. The other man watches the bridge intently, waiting for the moment it drops out of sight to sever the cord.

            John dutifully inches out a thick hand and begins to fiddle with the metal fastening holding the bridge up. It clicks open and the bridge swings sideways with a clatter. He winces then glances about to make sure that nobody is watching. The deck remains empty.

            The second clasp falls open easier than the first, and the bridge falls and smacks against the hull of the _Hudson_ as Baker swings his sword hard and splits the rope. The main sail whooshes open, and just as the lone man at the helm shouts, Stamford seizes forward and muffles him, easily overpowering the other man in his surprise.

            A man pokes his head up from the hold of _The Skull_ to see what all the noise is about, and his eyes widen at the sight of John standing proud on the deck. He yells and ducks back under, only to surface seconds later with a lamp and pistol.

            Another crewman emerges with a pistol and aims it at John, who takes that as his cue to leave. He steps back and begins to run forward. His feet leave the deck and his momentum is enough to carry him safely onto the _Hudson_. However, a hand grasps the back of his shirt firmly and yanks him back, sending John onto his back rather gracelessly. A tall, thin figure looms over him, and it leans down over the fallen captain. Once it comes into view, Holmes looms over John with a scowl.

            “Bind his hands and feet,” he commands the man who had aimed the gun at John, and he nods obediently.

          The _Hudson_ is barely out of jumping distance, and Holmes frowns at the delayed discovery. “Loose the sails!” He shouts, “prepare the cannons!”

            _The Skull_ ’s crew leaps to action as the man from earlier pins John down onto the deck with his weight. He tugs the shorter man’s struggling arms back behind him with ease and ties them together securely with a length of rope, then moves to tie his feet as well. John kicks as hard as he can, but the pirate catches his ankles and keeps hold as they flail wildly. He manages to tuck them under his legs and binds them together.

            John lets his head fall against the wood, defeated. He can think of no immediate ways to be escape to the _Hudson_ , which is quickly shrinking in his limited sight. He closes his eyes and fights the hopelessness prickling at his eyes. His crew is safe for now, and they’re under a reliable captain.

            “ _We won’t need to worry about that, John,_ ” Stamford had said back in the cell, “ _we’re all going to make it. It’s not like we’re fighting anyone.”_

_“There’s always a risk,”_ John had replied, “ _and if it happens, if anything happens to me, anything at all, you are to keep sailing. You’re to be the captain, and you’re to take them straight back to report to Lestrade, do you hear me?”_

_“Well, yes, but-“_ John’s look cut him off, and Stamford sighs. “ _Fine. But don’t do anything to get you killed.”_

Being killed was never a worry—death would be honorable. Being captured is just plain embarrassing.

            When John opens his eyes again, _The Skull_ has all sails open and is moving rapidly after the _Hudson_. With an odd sort of regret, John notes that the _Hudson_ is faster and that they’ll never catch up.

            It takes a full twenty minutes of painstaking pursuit for Holmes to realize this as well. He frowns in response, clutching at a small pendant around his neck without noticing. Holmes spins on his heel to face his prisoner.

            “She’s faster than us, isn’t she?” He asks bitterly, and John nods weakly. Holmes’s frown deepens before he turns to watch the _Hudson_ again. “Pity we lost her,” he notes absently, “she would have been a great aid to _The Skull_.”

            The captain faces John fully once more, tucking the necklace into his shirt. “You escaped,” he states, studying the bound man. “You beat me.”

            John is too broken to begin to feel any pleasure at having outsmarted the genius. “Yes, we did.”

            Holmes waves a hand. “No, no, no,” he says, “‘we’ didn’t. _You_ did.” He looks fully surprised with John, as if he were a fish that had just jumped up and began dancing a musical number.

            John frowns.

            Holmes turns away from John and rubs his hands together and mutters to himself. “I underestimated your abilities, and that led to the loss of a valuable ship—stupid, _stupid—_ but clever, very clever… _”_

            Realization hits John like an icy wave. “You’re surprised,” he monotones, “you think I’m stupid.”

            Holmes glances at him sideways with a raised eyebrow. “Of course.”

            John’s lip twitches and he snarls at the pirate. The flame of anger from earlier explodes through his cracked defenses and makes its ugly way to the surface. “You’re terrible!” He exclaims, “You’re vain and self-centered and _terrible!”_ He strains against the rope—not in attempt to escape, but in unadulterated fury. “You pretentious bastard!”

            Holmes smirks at him. “Thank you.”

            John lets out an infuriated yell and writhes. “Let me _out!_ ”

            “No, I don’t think I will,” Holmes narrows his eyes and turns to face the blond fully. “You’ve lost me the second most important acquisition of my career, _captain_.” He jeers.

            John snarls and twists about for another moment before falling still, panting. He chokes back his frustration, letting his head fall against the deck with a sharp crack.

            Holmes looms over John, face shadowed by the darkness cast by his near-black curls. “Take him into my cabin,” he mutters to the man who tied John up, “I’d prefer watching him myself, in light of the impressive flight he incited.”

            John does his best to give the taller man a glare through his exhaustion, but does nothing to fight the men who lift him by his shoulders and knees. They sway slightly with the still-in-motion ship as they carry their captive to Holmes’s quarters.

            The dark-stained door swings opens into an equally dark room. The white light of the moon highlights edges of a well-polished desk, glinting onto the walls. From his angle, John lacks a good view of the room—not that he has the will to get a good view. His shuts his eyes. There is no reason for him to see this room, nor is there reason for him to want to see this room.

            The pair of men set him down on his side in the corner of the black room at the foot of a cot. His vision is limited by darkness and positioning, but he can hear their distinct footsteps pad out the door, which is shut securely behind them. The lock clicks, and then there is silence apart for John’s breathing. However much he loathes the idea of sleep in such a situation, John feels his body aching for the rest that had been so rudely interrupted a few hours ago.

            His eyes drift shut and his breathing slows with the coherency of his thoughts. Then, his thoughts stop entirely, only to be replaced with strange swirls and pleasant melodies and a pair of glowing eyes always just out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I may take a break from posting the week after next. I've run a bit behind on writing and, while I have that chapter done, I only barely have it done and I need to catch up. It all depends where I am in writing chapter 8 next Thursday.  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy!


	6. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry that it's such a short chapter.   
> Also, there are very important author's notes at the end of this chapter. PLEASE read those!

            “You shouldn’t allow your guard to fall so easily. You never know what a pirate may have in store for you.”

            John is jolted out of his short sleep by a calm, deep voice. He looks about wildly, still dazed from everything. Where was he, why wasn’t he in his bed, where’s—

            “You’re on _The Skull_ , remember?”

            A pair of boots sidles into view, and John’s gaze follows the trail up slim legs and a well-dressed torso to the pale face of Sherlock Holmes. The captive’s lip twitches and he lets his head fall back against the wood floor. From above him, the captain smirks.

            “Ah, now you get it,” Holmes hums, “good morning—well, pre-morning really. The sun is just starting to rise.” He gestures towards the large window at the back of his quarters, where the sky is beginning to bleed pink.

            John presses his lips into a line and stays silent.

            The black leather tip of a shoe prods his chest. John clenches his eyes shut in an attempt to ignore the captain looming over him.

            Unseen by the bound man, Holmes smirks for a moment. “You have a grand gift of silence, Watson; it makes you quite invaluable as a companion—or, should I say, captive.”

            John wills his thoughts to drift away. If Holmes is going to monologue the best way to spite him is likely to not pay any attention whatsoever. So long as he doesn’t say anything interesting-

            “So I assume Lestrade abridged why you were to capture me.”

            Damn. John keeps his eyes shut and his breathing even.

            “Ah, a friend of the Commodore, then? Good.” The captain turns on his heel and begins pacing away from his prisoner. “Then his lie by omission should have an even greater effect on you.”

            John’s right arm twitches and his fist clenches. Had he been in any other position, that fist would have connected with Holmes’s jaw and sent the smug bastard flying back.

            “I did not steal the map from him, he stole it from me.” Sherlock turns back to Watson with a smug grin. The ex-captain, however, misses the grin in favor of the backs of his eyelids. Sherlock’s grin falls into a glower.

            “Fine.” Holmes lifts his face into the air with a haughty expression. “I _won’t_ tell you about what shady and sinister things the British government is doing—especially not the ones that concern your less-than-clear assignment to obtain a map to the Fountain of Youth.” He sits in his desk chair loudly.

            John can’t help but smile. Holmes, pirate extraordinaire, acts like a scorned child when he’s not listened to. John’s eyes flick open and he attempts to hide his bemused smile.

            “Sorry, were you talking to me?” He asks innocently. There is a scraping noise as something is picked up from the floor, followed by a loud and dissonant arpeggio. John winces.

            “Oh that’s incredibly _witty_ and _mature_ , to pretend as if you didn’t know I was in the room.” Holmes plays an equally grating chord. “You are incredibly clever,” another chord, “and I’m glad to know that you have the entire thing figured out and that my dramatic revelation is completely unnecessary.” The captain launches into a brief, squealing melody, and John finds himself struggling not to laugh despite the situation.

            “Perhaps, Mr. Holmes,” John retorts, “I’d be more obliged to listen to you if I weren’t so tied up with other things.”

            Holmes ends the melody with screeching chord and kicks up off of the chair. In seconds he is across the room and crouching, his face close to John’s. His piercingly blue eyes (weren’t they green last night?) bore into John’s face, studying it with a scowl.

            “Do you _want_ to know, or not?” the pirate growls.

            “Depends.” John raises his eyebrows petulantly. “Do you want me to listen or not?” He brings his bound hands into view.

            Holmes glares at his prisoner for a moment before standing with a flourish and snatching up the dagger from his desk. With one fluid motion he splits the bonds around John’s feet and returns the dagger to its place.

            “Unbinding your hands is dangerous, as I’m sure you’re aware.” He turns his back to John as the latter struggles to sit up. “Are you prepared to listen now?” There is an impatient bite to the captain’s tone, and John wouldn’t be surprised if Holmes were on his last nerve.

            “Fine, fine.” John gestures with his head. “What’s all this about Lestrade stealing from you?”

            “I’ve worked with the British Navy a few times—many times, really,” Holmes says, “Lestrade seems to believe that having a pirate working for him would be beneficial. It is, for both him and me.

            “There was rumor of a map some six months ago. It was said that there was a pirate—an inconsequential and indubitably stupid one—had unearthed a map to the Fountain of Youth. The idiot had no idea how to use it, though. He was rubbish at riddles. Regardless, the good Commodore called me in as he has done many a time before and asked for my aid in finding it. It took a few months, but we retrieved it. The only problem was that I was not allowed to see it.” Holmes turns his face upwards and glares at the ceiling. “Donovan decided that it was dangerous for me to look at the map—rightfully so—and thus it was confiscated from me and they set off for England.” His long jacket billows as he spins to face John. “I’m sure you know the rest of the story.”

            John maintains a level gaze in the captain’s direction. “So,” he begins slowly, “you are commissioned by the British government to do… whatever they ask?”

            “Obvious,” Holmes quips, “and they had asked for the map, so I retrieved it.”

            “Then why did you kill Donovan and attack the _Hudson_?” John asks.

            “Again, obvious.” Holmes gives John a look that makes the blond feel immensely silly, as if he had just done the stupidest thing in the world. “I wanted the map. Donovan refused to relinquish it, and you were attempting to take it.”

            John frowns. “Why would you want to see it in the first place?”

            Holmes shuts his eyes and puts his fingertips on his temples. “Ob-“

            “Yeah, obvious to you,” John cuts him off, “but not to me. It’s just a map.”

            Holmes’s fingers remain pressed to his head as he speaks tersely. “It is not the map that matters it is what the map leads to. Am I the only person who actually _thinks_?” He flings his arms out, thoroughly frustrated.

            “But it can’t actually lead to the Fountain of Youth,” John scoffs.

            “Oh, how foolish of you all.” Holmes gives the ceiling a bored glance. “You neglect to consider the improbable. Just because something has never been seen or reliably documented as having been seen does not mean that it does not exist.”

            John cocks his head. “You actually believe that rubbish?”

            “It’s not rubbish if it’s the truth.” Holmes turns to his desk and whips open a drawer, rummaging through it for a moment before withdrawing and slamming the drawer shut. “The map itself indirectly states that it leads to the Fountain.” He unrolls the paper and holds it in front of John’s face.

            The map is unlike any map John has ever seen. The material is beige seeping into yellow and fails to depict any sort of land masses reliably; it looks more like a drunk scribbled out the approximate image of what a map should look like than anything. Scribbles and letters cover the surface, muddling out any recognizable labels. The letters slowly sort themselves in John’s mind, gradually melding into words and phrases and riddles. Before he can begin to decipher them, however, the map is violently tugged out of view.

            “Do you now understand why I wanted this map?” Holmes’s gaze is sharp against John’s still-confused one.

            “No, you took it before I could read anything.”

            Holmes sighs before holding the map where he can read it easily. “‘Life’s best-kept and most sought-for secret remains, as always, as transient as the rain and as palpable as wine in our palms.’”

            John blinks. “What?”

            “It’s the only riddle on here that is not a traditional riddle,” Holmes explains, “and therefore indicates what the map leads to: the Fountain of Youth.”

            “But how does that relate to the Fountain?”

            “Isn’t it obvious?” Holmes asks.

            John raises his eyebrows and shrugs.

            The taller man sighs once more before rereading part of the sentence. “‘Life’s best-kept and most sought-for secret’ must and does refer the quest of a mortal to attain immortality. It must be the Fountain because of the water allusions throughout the entire passage—‘rain,’ thus water, and ‘wine,’ thus some sort of drink—therefore it fits with most mythology surrounding the Fountain of Youth and thus must lead to it.”

            “How did you-?”

            “Must I explain this again?” Holmes admonishes, “I know through the same methods that I knew about your sister and the mutinying sailor—do pay attention.”

            “But _how?_ ”

            “What does it matter how something is done so long as it is?” Holmes retorts.

            John studies the taller man for a moment. “Why would Lestrade work with a pirate?”

            “I’m no normal pirate, obviously.” Holmes takes a deep breath and proceeds to look exceedingly bored. “I’m a consulting pirate. I do as a please and aid others as I please. Without me, the British Navy would fold.”

            “But the Navy doesn’t consult rogues, and certainly not uneducated ones.”

            The captain’s visage remains blank as he studies John again. “You wanted to know how I knew these things, correct? One can see a trail of events and predict the outcome, can they not? In a similar fashion, should one not be able to see the outcome and predict what preceded it?” Holmes quirks an eyebrow at his prisoner. “When we met for the first time, you thought I was drunk. Obviously, I was not. I took note of all the aspects necessary to form a clear picture of apparent Captain John Watson, and it just happened that your sister and father were part of it.

            “You had been wearing older clothes when we met—you hadn’t washed them since you last wore them, thus indicating that you don’t wear them on a normal basis or you weren’t planning to wear them that night—regardless, the clothes were obviously a poor attempt at fitting in and you must have come from the newly docked ship. You held yourself with decorum, and thus you were trained in some sort of official service. Judging by the fact that you had just come from a ship that was very recently docked and still held that kind of strictness you must be one from the Navy. Your accent is British, so British Navy. You walked with a limp, using a cane. That’s not something that you see on a British Navy ship every day, so you were likely important to be serving on a ship with a cane, and therefore you must be the ship’s captain.

            “Because your clothes were old, there were plenty of traces to be picked up and analyzed. When I fell forward, I noticed the scent of strong alcohol on you. You hadn’t been out that night, as made blatant by your tenseness at having a stranger collapse on you, so therefore it must be a remnant of an earlier excursion. I would have deduced that you had drunk while in that same outfit were it not for the equally apparent aroma of perfume and a slight dusting of white powder. You did not smell of smoke, thus the powder is make-up powder from the woman.

            “A man who was so close to a woman so recently is out on a long journey for the British Navy; the woman can’t be his wife—no man would leave his wife for such a long and dangerous journey willingly—therefore the woman must be your sister. Thus, you live with your sister who has a drinking problem.

            “As for the similarity to your father, your pocket watch tipped me off to that.”

            “My pocket watch?” John stutters.

            “Yes, your pocket watch.” Holmes smirks. “It was old, tarnished, but well-shined. You care well for the watch, so it must be of some sort of sentimental value. Things like watches are generally passed down paternally, which doesn’t mean anything if your mother were the only child of her family or the oldest of a series of females. However, the watch has an engraving on it, ‘Watson,’ therefore it must have come from your father.

            “There are distinct, deep scratches along the area for winding. You keep the watch in too good of a condition to have done those yourself, and nor are you a drunk, therefore your father must have made them when he had the watch. Those scratches are exclusive to a drunk man’s watch—you never see a sober one’s with them, nor a drunk’s without—and thus your father drank, just like your sister. I am not uneducated—one does not need to be employed with ‘decent’ work to have an education. Please keep your asinine assumptions to yourself.”

            John stares at Holmes with wide eyes. “That… Was amazing.”

            The pirate blinks at his prisoner. “You think so?”

            “Absolutely,” John replies without hesitation, “it was extraordinary, absolutely extraordinary.”

            “That’s not what people normally say.” Holmes turns his head with a hint of a smile.

            “What do people normally say?”

            “‘Piss off.’” Holmes smiles with a hint of bemusement.

            Despite his situation, John finds himself returning Holmes’s smile with a small one of his own. The two sit in comfortable silence for a few moments.

            Holmes’s deep voice is the one that breaks the silence. “I’m sure you must be needing rest after this ordeal, and I will not be the one to deny you that need. Feel free to make use of my cot.”

            John glances over his shoulder at his bound wrists. “I’m not sure how well I’ll be able to, considering the state of my hands.”

            “I’m sure you’ll manage.” Holmes raises a challenging eyebrow and rounds his desk. He sits down in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other.

            “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Holmes,” John says, “even if you are a pirate.”

            The other man smiles. “Sherlock, please. If we are to share such intimate quarters, I’d much prefer to be on a first-name basis.”

            “Right,” John laughs, “as if I’m not your prisoner.”

            “Exactly,” Holmes confirms, “I’m glad you see it my way.”

            John scoffs as he pushes himself up as best as he can without the use of his hands. With an ungraceful bounce, he tumbles onto the cot that has been offered to him. It proves to be surprisingly comfortable for a ship bed, and John finds himself swiftly lulled into much-needed sleep by the rocking of the ship and the frantic scratch of the pirate captain’s writing.

 

            The rise and fall of John Watson’s chest interests Sherlock in only the most clinical fashion, as do the slight twitches in facial muscles that hint at a frown. Calm breathing, only occasionally escalating or varying in pattern or frequency, infrequent but patterned hand movements, a slight jerk in the left foot—diagnosis: light sleep, mildly uncomfortable dreams, likely will not remember said dreams upon waking.

            Sherlock frowns and presses his long fingers together. He had underestimated this man’s abilities, and that led to the loss of a rather fantastic vessel. It was idiotic to have underestimated anyone; Sherlock would have to be more careful. Much more careful.

            A shout comes from outside the cabin. Sherlock’s grey eyes flick towards the door. The same person yells again and the captain pushes himself out of his chair to investigate the disturbance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys. First of all I want to thank you all so much for sticking with this story thus far; it has been a pleasure writing it and reading your feedback. However, there are going to be a few changes to the posting schedule.  
> For simplicity, I am simply going to put the date and what chapter will be posted that day, and for anyone who wants to know why there will or will not be a chapter posted at any given time, there will be an explanation after that.
> 
> April 12th: No chapter  
> April 19th: Chapter 6  
> April 26th: No chapter  
> May 3rd: Chapter 7  
> May 10th: No chapter  
> May 17th: Unsure  
> May 24th onwards: one chapter every Thursday until the story is done or I say otherwise.
> 
> Right. So for those who want to know, there are very good reasons for the delays. Chapter 7 is unpleasant to write, considering I've been working on it for over a week and I'm still not a third of the way done with it. (I hate writing this chapter. So much. It's interesting and important but I just really want to write the chapter after this because it will be fun and oh my god) So, that's why there will be no chapter next week. That and standardized tests, although those really are a joke.  
> The week of the 26th: I am literally not going to touch my computer from April 19th until April 28th or 29th. By choice. I'm in a play and I have to have my lines completely memorized by Tuesday, but the play itself is the 27th and 28th and I need to make sure I have this stupid monologue down.  
> May 10th is right in the middle of the first AP week. I have 3 APs that week alone, and I'm hoping I'll have the strength to hide away my computer then. I'm not sure about the 17th because that is the second AP week and, although I don't have any that week, I'll probably be burned out after my European History DBQ and I may not be able to write.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I hope you enjoy all of the ones to come!


	7. Meet the Villain

            It is the sound of shouting outside of the cabin that wakes John for the second time. Light streams through the window and into his tired eyes, momentarily blinding him. He flinches at it and presses his palms over his eyes.

            John sits up stiffly, eyes clenched shut. They blink open to rake the room for signs of… Signs of….

            John’s eyes shoot fully open. Sherlock Holmes! Right. He pushes himself off of the bed, rubbing at his red wrists. Someone must have unbound him while he slept.

In the light, the previously indecipherable cabin shines. Charts are splayed across the desk, hiding the deep chestnut of the surface. Cups and baubles litter it in a similar fashion, sparse protrusions from a paper topsoil. There are countless gouges on one corner where the wood had been mauled by a dagger. The shelves that line the wall overflow with texts and errant papers without any rhyme or reason. Thankfully, the clutter refrains from consuming the floor.

            A dagger, presumably the one that had so mercilessly attacked the desk, digs into the wood of the door, holding up a note. “ _Don’t get any ideas. –SH”_ is all that it reads, but John knows what it means—don’t try to escape. He tugs the paper down and crumples it before removing the knife from its perch. He stabs it into the already abused desk where it sticks with a satisfying _thuk_ before moving to the door.

            The deck is flooded with the bright morning light and the sheer whiteness of it all momentarily blinds John’s sleepy eyes. When the pain subsides, John is surprised to find a deck bustling with people cleaning. John recognizes a few of the men, but they avoid eye contact with their ex-captain in favor of scrubbing the black floor boards into oblivion. John straightens his back confrontationally, then realizes that his deserters are, in fact, _above_ him now, due to his captive position.

            In a huff of mild frustration, John frowns and turns his head towards the edge of the ship. In the distance, a ship bobs just above the horizon but approaching fast. Perhaps that ship is the source of all the commotion?

            “I’m glad to see that you’re about once more,” a voice from behind says.

            “Well, somebody slit my bonds, so I assume that I’m doing what I was supposed to,” John replies without turning around, “you left me the note, after all.”

            John can practically hear the smirk on Sherlock’s face. “It surprises me, though. That you’re walking about so easily, that is.”

            The blond sighs and turns to face the captain. “And why’s that?”

            “You left something rather important in your cabin.” Smugness radiates from the pirate in waves that John cannot avoid. They wash over his head and push him under, tumbling him about in the after wake, leaving only a sense of prickling annoyance tingling in his skull.

            “What?” is John’s terse reply.

            “Your cane.”

            John’s eyes widen and he stares down at his injured leg in astonishment. “How-?”

            “Your limp was in your head; I knew that from the first moments I met you.” Sherlock smiles slightly. “You never needed the cane, not really. You may have been wounded during your service—how _was_ America, by the way?—but it certainly was not your leg that was wounded.”

            “What- no- but-” John stutters. Sherlock just continues his smirk.

            With a shout, one of _The Skull_ ’s men bounds up to Holmes. “The _Brook_ is coming, sir,” he pants.

            “Excellent.” The pirate captain presses his fingers together in front of his lips and strides to the wall of the ship. He leans his jacketed arms on the rail and crosses his legs, staring intently out at the approaching ship.

            “The _Brooks_?” John questions.

            “Yes,” Sherlock replies, “it is another pirate ship. Quite a dangerous one, in fact.”

            “Why haven’t I heard of it, then?” John challenges.

            Holmes turns his head to look at the captive in his periphery. “Because he didn’t _want_ to be heard of. This man effectively controls every ocean and every ship on every ocean—or he could. He controls what is said and thought of him, much like an artist controls what is blatant in his work. He’s even more powerful than my brother.” The captain smirks at his own joke, which fell rather flat on the rest of the crew.

            “Who?”

            “Mycroft,” Sherlock responds, “my brother occupies a minor position in the British government, and occasionally _is_ the British government.”

            “I meant who- wait, Mycroft?” John blinks with disbelief. “As in the ‘I-give-the-Navy-their-orders’ Mycroft?”

            Sherlock smirks bitterly. “Not just the Navy. Everyone else, too. As I said, he _is_ the British government.”

            John stares down for a stunned moment, eyebrow quirked. He scoffs. “Well, this is an interesting twist.”

            Sherlock straightens with a distracted look. “Indeed it is,” he murmurs, paying no attention to what he’s saying. He sets off towards the helm slowly at first, eyes still fixated on the horizon, increasing speed gradually until he’s sprinting up the stairs and leaning over the rail, staring into the distance.

            “What are you—?” John shakes his head, then dashes after the captain. “What are you looking at?”

            Without turning to John, Sherlock replies: “The _Brooks._ ”

            “Why’d you run off like that, though?” the blond chides, “It was rude.”

            The pirate ignores the minor insult on his personality in favor of the ship. “She’s different.” Sherlock frowns. “This may be a problem.” He turns to the deck with a blank expression. “Prepare to be boarded!” He shouts to his crew, and a murmur of confusion rustles through them. “Peaceably boarded, most likely, but prepare nonetheless.”

            Sherlock plants both hands on the rail overlooking the deck and vaults himself over it, landing gracefully on the deck. He disappears into his cabin as John gapes.

            “He does that,” one of the navigators says, pulling John out of his astonishment. “He’s vain and pompous and annoying as all Hell, but he’s a good captain, and a brilliant one too.” The navigator presses his lips together thoughtfully. “If you’re walking about free right now, he must have seen something that the rest of us didn’t.”

            “Really?” John quirks his head. “What might that be?”

            The navigator shrugs. “Haven’t the foggiest. But he trusts you, and that’s not something many people can say.”

            “Hm.” John frowns. “Odd, that is.”

            A door slamming below sends vibrations shuttering through the helm. With it, Sherlock strides into view, dressed in a long, clean coat. Hints of silver buttons shimmer in the light against a black waistcoat and royal purple shirt underneath. His outfit presents a formidably well-dressed image—certainly to impress.

            John catches a glimpse of an exposed portion of Sherlock’s white chest underneath his shirt. For a pirate, Sherlock is shockingly pale. However, something else catches his eye: a string of navy blue beads. They disappear beneath violet fabric before John can get a better look, and the blond makes a mental note to ask Sherlock about it later.

            A shout comes from John’s right, and his head whips around to look. The _Brooks_ is lazily closing the already small gap between the two ships as Sherlock watches intently.

            The figurehead makes its way into focus first—a coy mermaid skirting the waves. Her soft face holds the kind of comeliness one would expect from such an enthralling creature, marred only by indistinct grains of wood. Her hands grasp the ship and her eyes are upward with a sad sort of expression, and it is only when John registers the expression that he realizes that she is bound to the ship with wood-carved rope.

            The _Brooks_ thrusts the mermaid figure forward through the ocean until she is alongside the bow of _The Skull_. The men on the other ship hustle in near silence to drop anchor and create a walkway between the two ships.

            The wooden plank connects the ships with a sharp _crack_ as is makes contact with the dark deck of _The Skull_. The long minute of nothing that follows sends nervousness prickling through John. Who are these people?

            Then suddenly, a door slides demurely open on the _Brooks_ —the cabin door. Confident footsteps, heel toe, heel toe, click out across the damp brown deck of the other ship. Black trouser legs tucked into brown boots swish against one another. A black-red vest brushes carefully against the leather of a belt and the white of a shirt. Brunette hair lies flat beneath a beaten hat—a captain’s hat. When the hat-wearer turns to his captive audience aboard _The Skull_ , he smiles gently, brown eyes wrinkling at the edges.

            “Hello there, dear,” He drawls in a high voice, and John immediately dislikes the man. He seems too soft to be a pirate, too kind.

            Too good to be true.

            “Have you missed me?” The too-soft-looking captain of the _Brooks_ smiles dreamily at Sherlock, who has just stepped into the meeting.

           “I should think not.” Holmes clicks the “t” in “not.” He stares at the other captain intently for a long moment. “Why are you here, Moriarty?”

            Moriarty grins wolfishly. “You’re not the only one that gets bored, you know.”

            “But why did you come to me?” Sherlock tilts his head up slightly, straightening his back and shoulders—a subtle but assertive movement.

            The other captain returns the challenge with a puffed chest and tilted head. “A little birdy told me that you have something interesting to do.” He crosses his left leg in front of his right, completely at home on Sherlock’s ship.

            Sherlock takes a haughty breath and tilts his head down slowly. “That little birdy seems to have been grievously misinformed.”

            “We both know that’s not true, my dear,” Moriarty smiles.

            The two captains slip into silence, but their conversation is far from over. Moriarty’s smile twitches into neutrality. Holmes’s eyebrow quirks very slightly. Moriarty head turns a centimeter. Holmes’s eyes narrow minimally. Moriarty’s eyebrows rise. Holmes adjusts his coat.

            Moriarty shrugs, smiling once more. His eyes turn predatory suddenly and they flick to John. “Who’s your new pet?”

            John blinks surprisedly.

            Sherlock gives a skeptical glance at John. “Him? He’s my prisoner, although I’m sure you’re aware of that little fact.”

            Moriarty’s gaze rakes down and up John’s body, calculating. John sets his mouth into a frown and straightens his shoulders.

            Moriarty chuckles. “You’re trying to look all tough—how cute! Ordinary people are just a- _dor_ -able.” His ochre eyes flit back to Sherlock with a mischievous light in them. “I’d say I should get one of my own, but I already have one in addition to a whole crew.” He turns his head to look at a grizzled blond man behind him. “Sebastian makes things so much more interesting.” Moriarty turns back to Holmes with a relaxed air.

            “I’m sure he does, considering what you two get up to.” Sherlock tilts his head and smiles with closed lips.

            Moriarty gives a silent laugh and shakes a finger at the other captain. “Oh that’s clever, very clever; I almost forgot that you can read people almost as well as I can.”

            The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches imperceptibly but stays locked in the mocking smile.

            “And I wouldn’t pass judgment on me for that,” Moriarty adds, “you never know what you may get up to in the future.” He turns on his toes towards the plank bridging the gap between the ships.

            John frowns in confusion. “Is… Is that it?” He mutters to himself.

            “Yes it is,” Moriarty answers, “I could continue, but everything I have to say has already crossed his mind.”

            “And my answer has crossed yours,” Holmes agrees.

            Moriarty gives Sherlock a look over his shoulder. “It’s been lovely chatting with you, sweetheart, but Daddy has to be going now. I have other things that I need to be doing, after all.” He redirects his head so it sits forwards once more before crossing the gap to his own ship, followed by the few members of his crew that had accompanied him.

            Sherlock breathes in calmly and lets his head tilt down with his exhale. “Catch you later,” he states, clearly enunciating every word.

            “No, you won’t!” Moriarty smiles and waves a hand to his crew, who jump to action.

            A _Brooks_ crewman pushes forward clumsily from the crowd on _The Skull_ , dashing to re-board his ship. Sherlock catches him by the arm with a pointed look. The smaller man’s eyebrows knit together and he frowns confusedly. Sherlock continues his intense look, and the man gives up the pretense and reaches into his coat, pulling out a small scroll—the map. Sherlock smirks triumphantly and, instead of taking to offered map, he tugs a second one out of the man’s pocket. The smaller man’s expression falls and he shoves the fake map into his pocket bitterly. Sherlock releases his arm in enough time for the straggler to dash across the plank connecting the two ships. It is pulled back onto the _Brooks_ , and the ship glides into motion and away from _The Skull_.

            Sherlock’s coat flares out as he turns on his heel. He stalks back to his cabin. The door slams behind him.

            _The Skull_ remains silent as the _Brooks_ pulls away. Only when their wake is indiscernible does an astonished murmur go through the crowd.

            “Wait, are you saying that was _James Moriarty_?” A man to John’s right gasps, “Why did he just leave?”

            “Who knows what goes through his mind?” His companion replies, “But I can tell you this: there was much more to that conversation than speaking.”

            The crew disperses more and more as the _Brooks_ disappears from sight. By the time she drops below the horizon, John is left alone to lean against the bulwark and observe the shimmering sea. ****

“You want to know who that was,” Sherlock states, leaning back against the bulwark beside John.

            The blond gives him a sideways glance. “Of course I would want to know who that was,” he snaps, “but I’ve already been filled in a bit.”

            “Oh?” Sherlock raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Well then, tell me who he is.”

            “James Moriarty,” John begins, “pirate mastermind, not unlike you.”

            Sherlock smirks.

            “You met him about a year ago when you were helping out Lestrade,” John continues, “and that case was the only one you didn’t succeed on—because of Moriarty, no doubt. It was something about a cab driver poisoning people, although I’m not quite sure what that would have to do with a pirate. But there you met Moriarty, and you lost the murderer.”

            “Is that all the information that you have?” Sherlock questions.

            John blinks suprisedly. “Um, yes?”

            Sherlock chuckles. “Then you know nothing.”

            “What more _should_ I know, then?” John purses his lips in frustration.

            “James Moriarty is more than an intelligent pirate,” Sherlock corrects, “he is a criminal genius. He is a spider, the spider at the center of a web, a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances. He is a specialist. People come to him with their problems, ‘dear James will you fix it for me?’ and he does. That is why he got away—he has too many connections.”

            “Does Lestrade know about him?”

            Sherlock sighs. “No, and nor should he. Knowledge is power, but in this case it’s liability. Even knowing who Moriarty is could get you killed unless you know about him for the right reasons.”

            “That seems a bit overdramatic, doesn’t it?” John smiles slightly, disbelievingly.

            Sherlock keeps his face straight and flicks his once more acidic green eyes to meet John’s blue ones. “It would be overdramatic only if it were false.”

           John swallows under the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze (when did he become “Sherlock” instead of “Holmes?”) and returns the look.

            The two stare, evaluating one another, communicating without words. The two break off the gaze with an unspoken understanding, John returning his eyes to the bobbing water and Sherlock turning his evaluating glance skyward.

            “What did he want?” John asks without looking.

            “The map, obviously,” Sherlock replies, “he sent one of his men to my cabin to retrieve it, but the man also had a fake map in the case that I stop him, which I did. He offered up the fake map, which you saw that I rejected in favor of the real one.” Sherlock reaches into his jacket and procures the map in question and shakes it once. “Moriarty knows who I am. He shouldn’t have thought that he was able to trick me.”

            “Are you sure that he didn’t?” John questions.

            Sherlock tilts his head and looks at John, confusion written across his face.

            “You said that Moriarty is a genius,” John clarifies, “and if he is he probably would have known that you would have seen through that. So maybe he told the man to offer you the real map, knowing that you would assume it’s the fake?”

            Sherlock stares across the ship blankly, calculating. Understanding and, if John is not mistaken, embarrassment flicker over the captain’s features. “Oh, stupid, _stupid!_ ” Sherlock wrenches open the map frantically. His face falls into a sneer, and his lip twitches slightly. He tosses the map onto the ground and storms off into his cabin.

            John sighs. He must have been right. He scoops up the paper from its place on the deck. “ _I told you that I had things that I needed to do. Thank you for the map, my dear. X”_

            “Get to action! We’re sailing!” Sherlock bursts out of his cabin abruptly and yells to his crew.

            A few of the men in question poke their heads up from below deck. “Now?” One asks.

            Sherlock glares. “Now!” he barks, and the men there scramble onto the deck, followed swiftly by the others.

            “Where are we going, sir?” a man asks Sherlock, and John recognizes him as the navigator he had spoken to earlier.

            “Bakerstown,” Sherlock replies simply and spins to face John, eyes fierce. “You are not to leave my cabin unless it is under my accompaniment.” He states, then struts to the helm of the ship, where the navigator is hurriedly laying out reference charts, leaving John with the sudden reminder of his positions.

            By the time the sails are unfurled the anchor has barely been lifted, and _The Skull_ jumps into motion in the direction of Bakerstown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words cannot express how sorry I am that I haven't updated in so long. I have very good reason for it, though: I got internet again today for the first time since my last update. I'm so sorry for the delay.   
> Thank you to all of you who have waited so patiently. I'll be updating more now. During my time without internet I just... Lost interest in this story, however much it pains me to say. But I've regained that interest. It's just the chapter after this that is killing me. Once I get through it, things should go much better.  
> I won't be updating this Thursday, considering I'm updating today, but I will be updating next Thursday for sure.  
> Again, words cannot express how sorry I am that you all had to wait this long. This story is my baby and I promise that I will never leave it alone for so long ever again.


	8. Doldrums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. Apparently this chapter has been sitting here since... Oh god the 29th of September. ....2012. I'm so, SO sorry.  
> I reread this chapter tonight and I'm considering starting it up again. No guarantees. Mostly since, in rereading it, I realize that my writing is atrocious. I'd like to think I've gotten better since then, but.... Odds are I probably haven't.

By time _The Skull_ reaches Bakerstown, John is thoroughly convinced that he has no chance of escaping. If he wishes to leave the ship it is in the company of Sherlock Holmes only, otherwise he is to be locked in Holmes’s cabin—neither of which facilitate flight. The only hope he has is in relaying what little information he has to a reliable messenger to the British Navy, which is unlikely in itself.

            It is with a sigh that John disembarks _The Skull_ with Sherlock at his side. The captain tugs John along the busy streets of Bakerstown, pulling him from shop to shop on a disorganized search for some elusive item.

            “The blacksmith should have a sword that may be of use,” Sherlock mutters as he leads John towards a homely building with smoke billowing from its chimney. “Walk faster.”

            John is hit with a wave of heat as he steps into the smithy at Sherlock’s insistent nudging. The air tastes of iron and fire and sweat and it overwhelms John, sending his head spinning.

            Sherlock’s eyes spark with awareness, and he pulls John to a corner towards the front of the shop. “Stay here,” he commands, then flits off into towards the forge to harass the smith.

            John takes the moment to drown out his scrambled head with information. His eyes graze across the shop, taking in anything and everything. Sword, gun, Sherlock, poker, prod, Sherlock, pin, shoe, saber, Sherlock—the images register but remain separate from John’s thoughts. His gaze slides across a particularly ornate sword, and he wanders over to it with a frown. He lifts the sword carefully, analyzing the carefully crafted hilt. The sight fills John with a strange sense of nostalgia, but only when he sees the insignia on the pommel does he recognize what is so familiar about the sword.

            “Um, excuse me?” John waves over a woman in an apron. “Do you think you could do me a favor?”

            By the time the pair return to _The Skull_ , the sun is about to make contact with the ocean and the crew is antsy to leave.

            Fire and water come together the moment _The Skull_ sinks out of view of Bakerstown.

\--

            The clang of metal wakes John, sending him shooting out of the cot in Sherlock’s cabin in surprise. The Captain sits at his desk, an amused smirk blatant across his face.

            “Good morning,” Sherlock hums, amusement in his voice, “did you sleep well?”

            John raises an eyebrow at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “It’s the polite thing to do, isn’t it?” Sherlock cocks his head. “It’s what polite people do.”

            “Well, you’re hardly polite,” John says, arms stretched above his head. “I slept well, as far as sleeping on a pirate ship goes. You?”

            “Didn’t,” Sherlock replies simply.

            John stops stretching and lets his arms flop to his sides. “You didn’t sleep?”

            “No,” Sherlock confirms, “sleep is boring.”

            John glances down then shrugs. If Sherlock wants to ruin himself then it is none of John’s concern.

            Sherlock observes John with a dispassionate expression. After a moment, he gives a terse smile and asks: “breakfast?”

            Unsurprisingly, breakfast on a pirate ship is disappointing at best. Dried meat scratches its way down John’s throat, chased with a gulp of bitter water, soon spat out in favor of stale beer.

            It is no wonder that Sherlock is so skinny.

            With a disgusted gulp of bitter beer, John sets down the hard piece of bread he had been gnawing on. “So, how long will this trip take?” He asks Sherlock hoarsely.

            “Two months,” the captain replies, “at minimum. It will likely take in the vicinity of 50 to 90 days.”

            John groans. “I forgot how agonizing trips to the colonies can be. Which colony are we going to?”

            “Georgia,” Sherlock states, “I have an acquaintance there that could be of some use.”

            “An acquaintance?” John parrots, “And they’re worth visiting a British colony for?”

            “She will know where Moriarty is going, so yes.” Sherlock rests his fingertips against one another gently in a prayer-like motion.

            “‘She?’” John raises an eyebrow. “What kind of ‘she?’”

            Sherlock glances towards the door to his cabin with a strange look. “There’s something I have to do,” he mumbles, then pushes himself out of his chair and out the door, leaving John alone with his stale bread.

            John does not see Sherlock again for the rest of the day.

\--

            The same _clang_ as the day before is what greets John the next morning. He sits up straight in the cot with the sudden noise.

            Sherlock stands impassively at the window, staring out across the sea. John smirks at the sight.

            “Enjoying the view?” He asks, pushing himself up from the mattress.

            Sherlock only hums in response and keeps his eyes on the rolling water. Then, without any sort of warning, he breezes out of the cabin.

            John shrugs, then stretches.

            After hours cooped up in a single room, John comes to a conclusion: pirate ships are shockingly boring when one is locked in a cabin. His first mode of entertainment had been tedious at worst, ineffective at best; he had watched the white wake of the ship.

            Being a sailor, this gets old rather fast.

            The novels on astronomy and mathematics crammed haphazardly on the bookshelf provide no release from the stifling nothingness, John then finds. They allow minutes of interest, before plunging their reader into hopeless confusion at the definitions of integrals and derivatives and series and—John shuts the Calculus book in a huff and shoves it back into the forest of literature angrily.

            He tries word games and writing; nothing relieves his boredom. By the time Sherlock appears with lunch, John is sitting stiffly on the cot, staring at nothing.

            Sherlock smirks. “Hungry?”

            John’s neck cracks as he turns it towards the door for the first time in hours. “Starving,” he replies, then stands carefully. His muscles pull painfully from disuse.

            Sherlock’s smirk slides into a smile. “You’ve been sitting here since I left,” He states, and John nods. “Hm.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow and half-shrugs. He sets down a wooden tray of bread, meat, and a few bits of cheese.

            John gingerly picks up the chunk of bread. “Are you sure this is bread?” He hits it against his hand. “It doesn’t _feel_ like bread.”

            “It’s edible,” Sherlock admits, “I don’t guarantee that it’s bread though.”

            “Who can?” John shrugs, taking a bite out of the bread.

            Sherlock smiles, then spins and faces the door. “I’ll be back when you’re asleep. Attempt to amuse yourself with something more than rifling through my books or staring into space.” Sherlock breezes out of the room and slams the door behind him.

            John blinks.

            The remainder of his day is spent widdling away at the hunks of cheese, turning them into buttons.

\--

            On the fifth day of the strenuous trip to the Americas, Sherlock spends the entire day in his cabin, reading. He skims through novel after novel, feet propped up on his desk, fingers stroking the paper.

            “Are you going to do anything but read?” John asks.

            No response.

            The rest of the day is silent, save for the turning of pages and continuing scrape of knife against cheese.

\--

            “What _is_ that?”

            The tenth day wakes John up before sunrise with the tortured squeal of _something_. It screams insistently, piercing John’s eardrums. He claps his hands over his ears and searches for the source.

            “ _Sherlock!”_ he yells over the whining, “what are you doing?!”

            The scream stops, and the captain turns to face John, revealing the source of the noise: a violin.

            John stares at the instrument in disbelief. “You know that, no matter how much you torture the thing, it won’t tell you where Moriarty is, right?”

            Sherlock scoffs and steadies the violin on his shoulder once more. “I wasn’t torturing it.” He plays a rapid, more palatable series of notes. “I was merely expressing my thoughts.”

            “Your thoughts?” John gapes. “Do your thoughts sound like a dying animal?”

            “Currently, yes,” Sherlock quips, then plays another squealing melody.

            “Stop!” John cries. Sherlock ignores him. “SHERLOCK!”

            The lanky man ceases his playing. His face draws into an expression of extreme annoyance as he lifts the violin from his shoulder. “This is my ship. You are my prisoner. I will play violin in my cabin on my ship in front of my prisoner if I wish.”

            He plays until the sun rises.

\--

             Out of sheer boredom, John decides to make a tally of every day they are at sea. He snatches a quill and bottle of ink from Sherlock’s desk, then ruffles through the disorganized drawers beneath before he finds a proper piece of parchment. With twelve quick strokes he makes five tally marks across the paper. He nods, then wrenches the dagger out of Sherlock’s desk and pins the paper to the wall above the cot with it.

\--

            It is not until John is ignoring Sherlock’s violin in favor of making a eighteenth tally on his chart that he realizes that he has never seen the captain sleep.

            “Sherlock?” John calls. The violin stops.

            “Yes?” The bow in Sherlock’s spindly hand hovers just above the strings, posed to dive back into whatever melody had been interrupted.

            “Where do you sleep?” John asks, then realizes the strangeness of the statement and corrects: “I mean, you would normally sleep here, yes? Where have you been sleeping since I came?”

            Sherlock’s calm, grey-blue eyes lazily meet John’s. “I haven’t.”

            John blinks. “What?”

            “I have not slept,” Sherlock repeats, “not more than a few hours here and there, at least.”

            “How can you not have slept?”

            “Sleep is boring,” Sherlock states, tilting the bow across the strings of the violin once more.

            “But you need it to live!” John gestures wildly.

            Sherlock ignores him.

            John sighs. “Fine. Don’t sleep. See what I care.” He sits back on the cot and stares defiantly at the bookshelves.

            In his periphery, Sherlock smirks. “It’s difficult to storm off when you can’t leave, isn’t it?”

            John glares forward.

            Abruptly, the captain sets his violin down and looks intently at his captive. After a moment, he says “you may leave now if you wish.”

            John’s head tilts in Sherlock’s direction and the two meet gazes. “What do you mean?”

            “This.” Sherlock takes three long, graceful strides and swings the door to his cabin open.

            John spends the rest of the day leaning against the bulwark, entranced by the shimmer of sapphire waves and the wind in his hair

\--

            “Have we really been out for only three weeks?” Sherlock’s voice is loud against John’s ear as he writes the twenty-first tally on his makeshift calendar. He jumps, sending the line skittering out of control, looping about itself to become a noose. John huffs.

            “Yes, Sherlock,” he bites, “if you paid any attention to the days, you would know that.”

            “I do pay attention to the days,” Sherlock replies, pulling away from the chart on the wall. “I do not pay attention to how many have passed.”

            “That is, by definition, not paying attention to the days.” John turns about on the cot, sitting cross-legged, facing the desk. “Do you even know what day it is?”

            Sherlock diverts attention to his desk, pulling open drawer after drawer in search of some elusive object. After a moment, he replies: “Tuesday?”

            John crosses his arms. “No, Sherlock, it’s Thursday, and if you had paid any attention to whatsoever to the passing of time you would know that.”

            The captain ignores him in favor of the disappearing into depths of his disorganized workspace.

            John sighs. “Well, I would like to go outside,” he states, “may I?”

            There is a thump, a suppressed yelp, then an affirming “mhm.” The desk shifts a few inches forward, and Sherlock mutters a curse.

            The blond rolls his eyes and steps calmly out the cabin door.

            The deck is practically empty, save for a few scurrying men maintaining the billowing sails. John travels unseen to the edge of the ship, leaning his elbows against the rail. Water and more water fills John’s vision in all directions.

            Finding imperfections in the monotonous scenery holds John’s attention until the sun drowns in the horizon.

\--

            _Thud._

John’s breathing hitches as he’s pulled into semi-awakeness.

            _Thud._

His eyes press together tighter.

            _Thud._

            He scrunches his face.

            _Thud._

He flips and buries his face in the pillow.

            _Thud._

            He presses his hands over his ears.

            _Thud._

            He pulls the pillow on top of his head.

            _Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

John gives up and raises his head. His vision blurs as he searches for the source of his unwelcome awakening. Unsurprisingly, it’s Sherlock.

            “What the _hell_ are you doing?” John snaps.

            “Entertaining myself,” Sherlock replies. He drops a bag of something onto his desk and it lands once again with yet another resounding _thud._

            John’s lip twitches. “How is dropping a _bag_ entertainment?”

            “Gravity.” _Thud._ “Studying its effect on stale cheese is quite fascinating.”

            John sits in silent disbelief as Sherlock drops the bag again. Then again. Then, “no, that doesn’t interest you.”

            Sherlock’s deft hands stop before they drop the bag once more. He smirks. “Oh? How do you know what does and doesn’t interest me?”

            “I don’t,” John replies, “but gravity is boring because it simply exists and does nothing interesting. It’s like breathing to you.”

           The pirate stares blankly at the wall, occupying his hands with turning the bag of cheese around in his fingers. “I can’t help being bored,” he drawls, then drops the bag again.

            John sighs. “If you’re going to continue with that, then I’ll just have to—”

            “Captain?” A cautious voice from behind the door floats into the room.

            Sherlock whisks across the room and pulls the door open with a flourish. His expression shows nothing but passive boredom and contempt for being disturbed in his attempt to relieve it. “What?”

            “We… We may have a slight issue, Captain.” The crewman cowers. “The wind… It ain’t blowin’ anymore.”

            Sherlock’s green-gray-blue gaze flicks to the limp sails. “So it isn’t. You thought I need be informed of this why?”

            “It ain’t blown all mornin’, Captain.”

            Sherlock blows past the crewman. John listens to the Captain’s bounds up the stairs, then hears him curse.

            The dark-haired pirate slams his cabin door and sits roughly in his chair.

            John lets Sherlock glare at nothing for a while before asking “what seems to be the problem?”

            “Doldrums” is the sulking man’s reply. “We could be stuck in the middle of nothingness for _weeks._ ”

            John sighs. This trip is going to take longer than expected.

\--

            The only sound their twenty-fifth day at sea is the drumming of Sherlock’s fingers against his desk and the occasional shrieking of his violin. John spends the majority of that day whittling at his lump of cheese.

\--

            Sherlock is crouching by John when he awakes. The pirate’s fingers are steepled as his cat-like, peridot eyes study his captive’s sleeping form. The moment John’s blue gaze connects with his, the captain stands up and leaves the cabin.

            John doesn’t see him for the rest of the day.

\--

            There are no words to describe properly John Watson’s shock at the sight of the cabin door slamming open to reveal a heavily-breathing Sherlock, covered in blood, carrying a harpoon.

            After a pause, the captain sighs: “well _that_ was tedious.”

            “You were out _there_ like _that?_ ” John stares at his (friend? Roommate? Captor?), astonished.

            “I had to have been out there in order to have gotten here. What do you expect, for me to _fly_?”Sherlock bites in response, “or perhaps you’d have like me to magically appear here, like a fairy?”

            John gives him an incredulous look from underneath his eyebrows. “A fairy?”

            Sherlock ignores John’s parroting and throws down his harpoon onto the desk, sending papers flying to the floor. “I need something to occupy my mind. This tedium is unbearable.”

            “We’ve only been here for four days.” John shakes his head. “How will you manage if we’re stuck here for weeks?”

            “I won’t,” Sherlock states, “if we remain in a single place for weeks, Moriarty will undoubtedly reach the second half of the map before us.”

            “We can’t do anything about that,” John sighs. “Just find something to occupy yourself.”

            “I’ve tried!” Sherlock throws his hands up and flops into his desk chair. “I need something stimulating! Something—”

            Two knocks sound at the door.

            John’s eyebrows raise. “Two knocks.”

            Sherlock tilts his head. “Half second between.”

            “Problem.” The two say in unison.

            The time it takes for the crewman to explain his issue is the time it takes for Sherlock to consider his query, disregard him as a lunatic, and decide that his simple “lunatic” problem is worthy of his time.

            “It was under my bed,” Henry Knight recounts, “I could hear it scratching. It’s come to get me, I just know it!”

            “Yes, yes, I heard. Thank you. We will look into it immediately.” Sherlock pushes the shipman out of the cabin door, then turns to face John with an excited expression. “We have a case!”  
            “We?” John smirks.

            “Well, unless you don’t want to get out of sitting and staring at things all day. You’re a military man, wounded in America. You’re unlikely to be content to sit and watch the waves after so eagerly jumping at a chance to rejoin the action. So, are you coming or not?”

            “Oh God yes.”

\--

            The so-called “mystery” of the hound stalking Henry Knight is not a complex one, nor does it take more than two days to unravel. By the time night had fallen for the second time since they received Knight’s plea for help, Sherlock had completely untangled the knot surrounding Knight’s restlessness.

            “How did you know about his father?” John asks as he removes his boots. “I mean, the attacking I could get, but how could you have possibly known that it was the result of his father’s death?”

            “Trauma.” Sherlock sets a ball of yarn down amidst the papers amassed on his desk. “That’s the simplest way to put it. He had fantasies of being stalked by a hound that would rip him up—there must be _some_ reason behind that. If he had been attacked as a child, he would have generalized the account and been terrified by seeing even a picture of a dog that looked nothing like the one which had been involved. He, however, only reacted to seeing the sketch of the one which looked like the attacker, ergo someone close. When I had mentioned his family he avoided the topic of his father other than the fact that he was dead, therefore it was likely his father. Therefore, witnessed his father’s violent death at the jaws of a feral dog, and now convinced that dog would come for him. That there was a cat on board, however, I missed entirely. I’m getting slow.”

            “That was completely brilliant,” John remarks, shaking his head, “how you come up with such elaborate stories based upon tiny details is beyond me.”

            “It is not the large things that one should pay attention to—quite on the contrary. It is the tiny ones which prove too be most intriguing.”

            John scoffs and looks down at his cuffs. “Well, if that works for you, I suppose I’ll simply have to accept it.”

            There is a shout from outside, and John looks up in time to see the ball of yarn go rolling across Sherlock’s desk.

            “Is that—?”

            Sherlock is out the door before John can finish.

            When the blond steps onto the deck, he is met by a pleasantly salty gust of wind, billowing sails, and a beaming Sherlock at the helm of his vessel.

\--

            “Sherlock?”

            “Mmm?”

            “Why did you hold me captive rather than kill me?”

            “You interested me.”

            “…Is that is?”

            “Yes.”

\--

            The forty-fifth tally scratched onto John’s calendar brings with it a question that John had long since forgotten about.

            “Sherlock, who _exactly_ are we going to see?”

            The captain continues reading. John never gets a response.

\--

            “Irene Adler.”

            “Sorry?”

            It has been nearly a week since Sherlock has spoken a word, much to John’s concern. Thankfully, the brooding brunette seems to have broken his word fast with the utterance of a name.

            “Who’s Irene Adler?” John asks.

            Sherlock’s head jerks to face John and his eyes flash. “Who told you that name?”

            “You did.”

            “When?”

            “Just a moment ago.”

            Sherlock’s face scrunches. “Why would I do that?”

            “You just said her name,” John answers, “out of nowhere. Just, ‘Irene Adler.’”

            A look of recognition floods Sherlock’s face. “Ah. Well, I was answering your question.”

            “My question…?”

           “An hour or two ago you asked who we were going to see in America.” Sherlock swings his feet beneath him, balancing in his chair. “So I answered.”

            John stared blankly at the pirate. “That was six days ago.”

            “Was it?” Sherlock raises his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “Well, time certainly does fly.”

            “Who is she?” John asks. “Irene Adler, I mean.”

            “Of course you mean Irene Adler. Who else could you mean?” Sherlock bites. He presses his fingertips together and rests them against his lips.

            Oppressive silence falls over the pair. It refuses to leave until brushed away with the creaking of the cabin door and the arrival of food.

\--

            “What are you making?”

            John looks up from his cheese whittling to see Sherlock perched on the desk, looming over him. He looks back to his cheese nonchalantly. “Buttons.”

            “What for?” Sherlock criticizes, “you have no need to replace any of yours and you aren’t the type to sew.”

            “It’s a hobby, Sherlock,” John sighs.

            “Why would you choose to carve cheese shapes? No, stupid question—why would I ask a stupid question? There is no point to carving cheese buttons and I fail to see how you gain any marginal happiness from it whatsoever.”

            “I don’t,” John states, “I do it to occupy myself. There’s not much else to do on this godforsaken ship.”

            Sherlock straightens his back and tilts his head up. “I am very proud of _The Skull_ , and it would do you good not to insult a man’s ship.”

            With that, the Captain stalked off like a wounded peacock.

\--

            As John is about to put the sixty-first tally on his calendar, Sherlock bursts into the cabin. The captain stands in one place for a moment, stares out the window, then storms out, slamming the door behind him.

            John sighs. “Sixty-one days, John. You’re almost there.”

\--

            “Are you ever going to tell me who she is?”

            “No.”

            Needless to say, John is not expecting such a blunt answer. “Why not?”

            His query is met with silence.

            “Who is she, Sherlock? An old fling?”

            A strange anger bubbles in John’s gut at Sherlock’s confirming silence.

            “Just tell me!” John insists.

            “Why?”

            John freezes. “’Why?’” He parrots.

            “Yes, why?” Sherlock sighs, not looking up from his book. “There has to be a reason for wanting to know who she is. Jealousy, perhaps?”

            “Wha- no!” John stammers, “We’ve been on this godforsaken ship for two months—“

            “Two and a quarter,” Sherlock interjects, “we’ve been here for sixty-eight days, as your calendar so astutely points out.”

            “It doesn’t matter!” John shouts, “we’ve been on this ship together for two months, sixty-eight days, _it doesn’t matter,_ and we’ve shared a cabin this entire time. Friends have a right to know what the bloody hell is going on!”

            “I don’t have _friends_ ,” the captain hisses, rising from his chair to tower over his prisoner, “and you are my prisoner, not my friend. You’d best not forget that.” He props up his coat collar and stalks out of the room, leaving an angry, confused, and hurt John in his wake.

\--

            The next day marks a solemn end to their journey with the shout of “land ho!” from the deck.

            John is the only one in the cabin before, during, and after this call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was really tired when I wrote part of this, and when I woke up the next day and went to write, this is literally what was at the end of my story: '“Is that—?” John is interrupted by a terrible author self-insertion, in which I decided that these two are being stupid and should just make out because it’s hot and I’m the author so I’ll do what I want.'
> 
> SERIOUS NEWS NOW  
> I don't know if I'm going to continue this. I might, I might not. I really don't know. It's been a long while since this was popular, and my writing in it is kind of terrible. I just don't know really.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who care, the first line initially read (by way of typo) "Amongst the vast blue of the ocean, as far as the eye can see, there floats gently a single shit."


End file.
